#which leads to her being a very beloved princess

[persephoneggsy]

i spent a lot of time today/yesterday thinking about my Marian Hawke living her best life as Princess of Starkhaven, and so naturally that spiraled into me designing five new outfits for her

elaborations below the cut

so this would of course be post DA2, if not outright post Inquisition. Marian is done traipsing around abandoned mines and dirty back alleys, she’s done being Champion of a city she never cared for in the first place. She fully embraces her role as Princess of Starkhaven and comes to love her new home with a fierceness she hasn’t felt since she was forced to flee Ferelden.

Everyday 1 - What she would wear to her day-to-day duties as Princess. She wears the Vael family tartan to diplomatic meetings.

Everyday 2 - Ferelden Insp - While she loves her new home, she’ll never forget her old one. She commissions several dresses done in a more Ferelden style, with simpler silhouettes and of course, fur.

Casual - This is basically just an elevated version of the ‘home’ outfit in DA2. This is what she wears on rare days off, when she’s able to just be with her beloved husband in the privacy of their chambers, or perhaps taking a walk through the palace gardens.

Party - Obviously, a princess needs to have a great selection of dresses for galas and balls and the like. She tends to favor reds and pinks, with a splash of gold for embellishment. Depending on the level of formality, she’ll also have a sash of Vael tartan to signify her status.

Travel - For the rare occasions where Marian once again takes up her staff to fight. Finely-crafted and woven with hidden enchantments, it is both practical and elegant, so no one truly forgets how high she’s climbed. The clasp on her belt bears the three circling dragons of Starkhaven, and the scarf around her neck is meant to be a tribute to her late sister, Bethany.

One constant in her outfits is the locket of Meghan Vael around her neck, which her husband gave to her upon their engagement. Another is, of course, her wedding ring.

I changed her hair from its usual appearance, since I think it makes her look a little softer and more refined. I considered letting her grow her hair out, but I have a bias towards short hair and so decided to keep it short.

And finally, I like to think Marian is an absolute sensation amongst the court of Starkhaven. So many trends in the fashion of the court start because of her - from Ferelden-styled fur embellishments, to the color pink skyrocketing in demand, to many ladies shearing their hair short.

[malkaviian]

i was going to draw sayaka and byakuya on the vamp au but realized that i also have to design their clothes and thats a lot of work for a shitpost related to a ship i dont even like

[pucksandpower]

Mesaytara

Charles Leclerc x Sheikha of Abu Dhabi!Reader

Summary: in which an Emirati princess sets off to make her mark on Formula 1 … and maybe falls in love along the way

You press your face against the glass of the private suite, watching with wide eyes as the mechanics scurry about below, tending to the sleek race cars lined up on the grid. The engines growl and rumble, seeming to shake the very foundations of the brand new Yas Marina Circuit.

“Baba, can we go down and watch them up close?” You ask your father, turning your big eyes up at him imploringly.

As the youngest child and only daughter of the ruler of Abu Dhabi, you know you hold a certain power over him. He dotes on you endlessly, his precious princess over a decade younger than your brothers.

Your father, Sheikh Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan, smiles fondly at your eagerness. “Of course, habibti. Anything for you.”

Despite being the most powerful man in the United Arab Emirates, your father takes your small hand lovingly as you practically drag him from the plush suite. Your entourage of guards and attendants follows at a respectful distance as you make your way down to the pit lane, the roar of the engines growing louder with every step.

Gasps and whispers follow as star-struck crew members realize just who has arrived mere feet from their work stations. They snap into nervous bows and stumble over themselves to clear a path for the Sheikh and his daughter.

But you pay them no mind, your attention utterly transfixed by the brilliant colors and aerodynamic curves of the Formula 1 cars. You’ve never seen anything so sleek and powerful up close. A faint scent of racing fuel and hot rubber hangs in the air, sharp and intoxicating.

“They’re so beautiful,” you murmur reverentially, watching as a pair of Red Bull mechanics roll out the tires for Mark Webber’s car.

Your father chuckles indulgently at your awestruck expression. “That they are, habibti. Works of engineering brilliance.”

A shot rings out from the starting lights, signaling the final minutes before the race begins. The air thrums with rising tension as the crews make their last frantic preparations. The loud thrum of the engines spinning up reverberates in your chest like a beating heart.

Leading you back to the shelter of the suite just before the cars roar out on the formation lap, your father settles into the plush sofa and pats the seat beside him. You immediately scramble up next to him, craning your neck to keep the track in view through the wide glass windows.

And then, they’re off — a streak of blinding color and screeching tires as the crimson Ferraris charge into the first turn. You rise up on your knees, hands pressed against the glass and breath fogging up the surface as you watch them disappear into the distance, chasing one another in a frenzy of motion.

For the next hour and a half, you are utterly enthralled, riveted to every twist and turn of the spectacle unfolding before you. You cheer and gasp with the roiling crowd, celebrating each breathtaking pass and lamenting every spin or collision.

When the checkered flag finally waves, signifying the end of the inaugural Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, you turn to your father with eyes still wide with wonder and admiration.

“Baba,” you breathe, newfound determination shining in your gaze. “I want to do that someday. I want to be a race car driver too.”

The rest of the assembled Emiratis in the suite freeze, shooting covert glances at one another uneasily. For a daughter, even a beloved princess, to harbor such ambitions is nearly unheard of in your culture. The thought of a young woman taking up such a masculine, dangerous sport is immediately dismissible.

But your father only smiles down at you warmly, cupping one calloused hand around your small cheek. “If it is Allah’s will for you, my daughter, then who am I to stand in your way?”

Around the suite, brows raise in shock and disapproval at the ease with which the Sheikh entertains your fanciful dream. You are too young to recognize the raised eyebrows and muttered whispers for what they are.

All you know is the pure joy that blossoms in your heart at your father’s blessing. You throw your arms around his broad chest, squeezing him tightly.

“Did you see them, Baba?” You gush excitedly in his ear. “How they danced through those turns? How bravely they raced and fought for every position? I’ve never seen anything like it!”

His chest rumbles with a low chuckle, cradling you against him in a fierce embrace. “I saw indeed, habibti. And perhaps no one else in our family has the same firelight in their spirit to take on such a challenge as you.”

You pull back with a radiant smile, total adoration shining up at him. At eight years old, you are still young enough to see your father as an all-powerful, all-knowing figure put on earth solely to make your dreams a reality.

The thought that he may ever deny you anything, even something as far-fetched as becoming a professional race car driver, is simply unthinkable. This is a man who rules a nation, who commands wealth and resources beyond your comprehension — and he has just promised to make your heart’s desire come true.

Still, your brow furrows slightly as the first traces of dubiousness creep into your shining eyes. “But Baba … I’m a girl. Will they even let me race?”

The Sheikh laughs again, deep and booming, causing the other attendants in the room to jump slightly at the unexpected outburst from their normally stoic monarch.

“And who is to say what any they will allow?” He counters, wagging one finger at you firmly. “If this is what you wish to do, we will move mountains to make it so. Even the most powerful dunes bow to the will of the lords who rule them.”

You giggle at his metaphor, picturing the undulating desert sands moving like ocean waves at his command. Your laugh fades as your expression turns pensive once more.

“But … I’ve never even sat in one of those cars, Baba,” you confess, chewing your lower lip anxiously. “What if I’m not brave enough? Or quick enough? What if I’m … not good enough?”

The very notion that anything or anyone could ever deny his daughter is clearly laughable to the Sheikh. He leans in close until he is staring into your eyes intently.

“Not good enough?” He asks, cradling your face in his hands. “You are the daughter of my heart, habibti. You were born of bravery and fire. There is no challenge in this life you cannot master if you desire it so.”

His words chase away any lingering doubt like the rising sun burning away the morning mist. You nod vigorously, fresh determination shining in your eyes.

“Then I’ll do it, Baba. I’ll work and train and become the quickest, bravest driver who ever lived! You’ll see!”

Your father’s warm chuckle is one of pure paternal pride and adoration. He presses a weathered kiss to your forehead, crinkling his nose at you playfully.

“If it is written, my daughter … then I have no doubt you shall, Inshallah.”

***

The mid-morning sun blazes over the sweeping dunes as the convoy of gleaming white Land Cruisers rolls up to the private family compound in Al Ain. After spending the night at one of the royal residences deep in the desert, you are returning to the main palace to celebrate your 15th birthday with the rest of the family.

As the lead SUV crunches to a stop on the grandiose circular driveway, you can’t help but notice an enormous object taking up a significant portion of the motor court. It is covered with an impeccably smooth red tarp, the color so rich it seems to glow against the bright sand like a magnificent mirage.

“What’s that?” You whisper to your brother Hassan, eyes wide with girlish curiosity as you peer through the tinted windows.

Hassan merely shrugs, already looking bored by whatever grand spectacle your father no doubt has planned this time. As the eldest son and heir apparent, he has long grown accustomed to the lavish trappings and surprises that come with being part of the Emirati ruling family.

You, on the other hand, still thrill at every indulgent display of your father’s affection — and his obvious efforts to make this birthday one you’ll never forget.

The minute your door is opened by a waiting attendant, you are scrambling to get out and get a closer look at the mysterious shape lurking beneath the tarp. Your towering bodyguards swiftly fall into step behind you, eyes sharp for any potential threat as they follow your darting form across the gleaming tile courtyard.

“Baba!” You call out excitedly, slowing your pace only when you draw up to the tarp-covered shape. “What is it? What’s under here?”

As the Sheikh emerges from the inner courtyard doors, chuckling heartily at your youthful enthusiasm, you notice the crowd of grinning spectators gathered behind him. A pride of aunts, uncles, and cousins spill out from within, all waiting with barely contained glee to bear witness to your reaction.

“Patience, habibti,” he chides you playfully, though his own eyes are twinkling with poorly masked mirth. Your father lives for these moments — any opportunity to shower his only daughter with grand gestures and lavish surprises. “The unveiling comes first.”

You practically vibrate with anticipation as your father accepts a simple push remote from one of his attendants. He casts you one more indulgent smile, then thumbs the button dramatically. There is an agonizing beat of total silence before the heavy tarp begins its slow mechanical slide to the ground.

When its contents are finally revealed, your jaw drops open in a shocked ‘O.’ There, squatting low and sleek before you like a panther ready to pounce, is the unmistakable profile of a Formula 1 car. But not just any car ...

“No ...” you breathe, pressing one hand to your mouth as you recognize every curve and angle, every slashing line of the striking Ferrari red livery. “It … it can’t be...”

“The F2002,” your father announces grandly, gazing at the vehicle with obvious pride. “The very same one that Michael Schumacher drove to his fifth World Championship that year. I had heard the team was auctioning it off to make way for their museum refurbishment … so I put in a special request.”

You stumble forward, hands outstretched to reverently trace the contours of the car as if to assure yourself it is real. Your fingertips glide over the sinuous sidepod, feeling the raised ridges of the sponsor’s decals and the rough nubs of leather on the steering wheel. You can scarcely believe you’re running your hands over the very car that dominated the 2002 season.

“Baba ...” you barely have the breath to vocalize your stunned gratitude. Any other girl may have been delighted by clothes or jewelry for a 15th birthday. But this … this is beyond your wildest dreams.

Your father steps up beside you, wrapping one strong arm around your shoulders as you continue gaping at the car in awe. He leans in close, his words meant for your ears alone.

“Do you remember what I told you that first day at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, habibti?” His voice is solemn but warm with parental affection. “That if this was your true desire — to race, to pour your spirit into this challenge — that I would move mountains to allow it?”

You nod numbly, still half-convinced you are dreaming even as the heavy scent of racing fuel and hot metal seems to fill your senses. Your eyes trace hungrily over every aerodynamic seam and vent carved into the car’s bodywork.

“So much has changed in the years since that day,” your father continues, giving your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “The world shifts in ways we can never foresee, carrying us all along in its currents whether we resist or not.”

You tear your gaze away from the car to glance up at him questioningly. His expression has turned peculiarly intense, the solemnity in his face aging him beyond his years.

“But there is one force more powerful than any empire or nation, habibti. More resolute than any passing storms that batter our traditions.” He leans in close, searching your eyes as if to impart something profoundly meaningful. “And that is the immortal strength of a father’s love for his child.”

The simplicity of the statement, the effortless way it encapsulates every indulgence and surprise of your young life, steals what little breath remains in your lungs. You simply gape at him, scarcely daring to blink as he cups your face in his calloused palms.

“So no, my daughter,” he murmurs, holding your gaze firmly with his own. “I will not deny you this. Your desires and dreams are my own. If you wish to race, if you burn to chase this path … you will do so with my eternal pride and blessing at your back.”

You feel tears prickling the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the depth of his vow. At fifteen you are still young enough for his words to anoint you with purpose and conviction. Your destiny feels as immovable as the highest dunes in that moment, your path clearly illuminated by his will alone.

As if to echo his promise, your father nods over your shoulder towards the gathered crowd. You glance back to find your extended family arrayed in a loose semicircle, hushed and watchful as if awaiting some pronouncement. Among their numbers, you recognize several prominent local racers and federation officials who have clearly been summoned here as witnesses.

“Which is why ...” your father continues, raising his voice to carry across the courtyard. “I have already taken the liberty of entering you in next year’s inaugural Formula 4 UAE Championship.”

A ripple of gasps and muttering races through the crowd at his words. You can see disapproving glances exchanged between the elders and officials, expressions ranging from skeptical to outright incredulous.

But your eyes only widen further, mouth falling open in shock as the implications of what your father has decreed wash over you. He said the words so casually, as if securing your entry to the first-ever national Formula 4 series was as simple as booking a dinner reservation.

“The … the F4?” You manage to croak out, still utterly blindsided by the revelation. “You mean … I’ll be racing in single seaters?”

A fresh murmur of disbelief rises from the crowd at your stunned reaction. Out of the corner of your eye, you see several uncles shaking their heads in disbelief, while your aunts look politely appalled. Even your stone-faced bodyguards shift uncomfortably at your father’s flagrant disregard for propriety.

But the Sheikh only frowns at them all, appearing affronted that they would dare doubt his word. When he speaks again, his tone brooks no argument — this is a decree from the ruler of the nation himself, not a mere family disagreement.

“For too long, many have clung to outdated traditions that would see my daughter’s ambitions rendered invisible,” he declares, seeming to grow in stature as he takes in their skeptical faces one by one. “We have chosen to view her gender as an obstacle to overcome, rather than a divine gift to be nurtured!”

You watch, stunned and a little afraid, as your father’s impassioned words seem to pull the disapproving gazes towards him like a lit torch drawing moths to the flame. You have never seen your normally reserved father so heated, so emboldened to make this public defense of your dreams.

“Which is why I say enough!” He sweeps one hand through the air, brushing aside generations of ingrained patriarchal norms like a tuft of desert sand. “My daughter burns with the spirit of a million wildfire hawks! And if you would deny her the right to chase her own destiny, you deny the winds that stir this very land itself!”

A hush falls over the assembled crowd, none daring to rebut the Sheikh’s sudden impassioned rhetoric. You can only gape at your father, utterly transfixed, drinking in his protective roar.

“From this day forward,” he declares, turning his fiery gaze back down to you. “My daughter will race for more than just herself. She will drive for every daughter in this family — in this nation — who has ever had her dreams dimmed simply for being born female. She carries the weight of a thousand ancestors’ ambitions on her back!”

His words seem to electrify the very air surrounding you. You can feel their power, their reckless conviction washing over you like a sandstorm flaying away all the self-doubt and uncertainty in its path.

When he gathers you into his embrace, you cling to him with everything you have. Tears stream openly down your cheeks, heedless of the audience bearing witness to this seismic shift in the ancient social order.

“You will race, habibti,” your father rumbles fiercely into your hair, squeezing you so tightly. “Not just because I wish it, but because it is your destiny written in the stars themselves. The path may be difficult, the challenges ahead more than you can fathom … but you will never walk it alone.”

You nod wordlessly against his chest, blinking back tears of overwhelming gratitude and purpose. In this moment, he does not merely feel like your indulgent father — he is the very sun burning away the last vestiges of doubt, ensuring your course is forever set towards glory.

When you finally pull back, your eyes shine with fresh determination and unflinching resolve. You turn to face the silent, gaping crowd with your chin raised defiantly, every bit the born warrior princes making her stand.

“I will race,” you declare, pitching your voice to carry to the furthest reaches of the courtyard. “And I will win.”

A shocked beat of silence hangs over the assembly. And then, incredibly, it is your dear brother Hassan who steps forward first, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“Of course you will, you spoiled brat,” he proclaims with a snort of laughter. “Knowing our father, you’ll probably end up with one of Lewis Hamilton’s cars next.”

The tension shatters in a wave of startled chuckles from the onlookers. You shoot your brother a watery smile, silently thanking him for being the first to signal his acceptance of the path your father has set out for you.

As the rest of the gathered officials and elders slowly begin to nod and murmur in acknowledgment, you feel a profound sense of peace and conviction settle over your heart. You need no longer dream and wish and hope — everything has been set into glorious, undeniable motion.

When you turn back to the gleaming Ferrari sitting before you, it no longer seems like an impossible fantasy, but a key to a future burning brighter than the desert sun itself. You move towards it without hesitation, climbing up into the body-hugging carbon seat until you are cocooned within its sleek lines.

Wrapping your fingers around the sculpted steering wheel, you can practically feel its power and purpose thrumming through you like an electric current of pure adrenaline. This is where you belong — raw ambition harnessed within a technological marvel. You are a falcon poised for flight, wings outstretched to conquer the horizon, gender be damned.

You glance up through the curved windscreen to find your father watching you with naked pride shining in his eyes. He catches your gaze and offers a single, solemn nod of acknowledgment. His little princess, once an innocent dreamer … now preparing to become a pioneer for a new era.

You nod back, inhaling the rich scent of clinging burnt rubber and drinking in the intoxicating promise of everything to come.

You are chasing more than just some fanciful passion. You will prove to the world that no ambition is too lofty, no dream too bold, for you to conquer.

***

The sleek Aston Martin DBX glides silently through the entrance tunnel and into the team’s gleaming new headquarters in Silverstone. As the muscular crossover comes to a stop in the bright, airy courtyard, a familiar thrill of anticipation sparks to life in your chest.

This gleaming complex of glass, steel and green technology has become more than just the workplace of your racing heroes over the past year. With the news of Aston Martin’s sudden sponsorship woes, it has taken on a tantalizing new significance — the potential launching pad for your own Formula 1 dream.

You shoot your father an excited glance as the driver opens your door, but the Sheikh remains impassive behind his amber-tinted aviators. Now in his late 60s, Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan has grown only more inscrutable and steely with age and power.

To the casual observer, he would appear utterly unruffled, preparing to stride into a meeting that could alter the course of the Formula 1 landscape. You, however, have spent a lifetime studying the nuanced ridge of his jawline, the reserved set of those broad shoulders, and can sense the focused intensity burning behind his courteous facade.

This is far more than just a meeting for the ruler of Abu Dhabi and chairman of International Holding Company, one of the largest conglomerates in not only the Emirates but the world. This is the potential culmination of a promise made to his only daughter nearly 15 years ago — a vow to move heaven and earth to ensure her dreams were realized.

You follow half a step behind your father and his retinue of advisors as they cross the courtyard, resisting the urge to gawk openly at the team motorhomes and formidable industrial build of the main factory. Despite spending your early years mired in the European junior formulae, this exalted world of Formula 1 still manages to set your heart pounding with equal parts reverence and ambition.

A sleek black sedan is idling in the VIP parking section, dispatched to collect the final party in your impending negotiation. As you slow your approach, the driver emerges and moves to hold open the rear door with an obsequious bow.

“Son of a bitch kept us waiting,” comes the droll observation from the tall, lanky figure emerging from the sedan’s depths.

Lawrence Stroll, Canadian billionaire, business magnate, and majority owner of the Aston Martin Formula 1 team, appraises your group through those same inscrutable tinted lenses favored by all men of profound power and means. At his side is the rather more bookish form of team principal Mike Krack, eyes already politely averted as he waits for the Sheikh’s lead.

You can’t resist a tiny, adrenaline-tinged thrill at the sight of them both. These are the men who hold the keys to the kingdom you’ve spent your life battering against — the exalted realm of Formula 1. You’ve spent countless nights watching their team’s racing green cars arc and pivot through Yas Marina’s turns, dreaming of the day you might join their ranks.

Now that tantalizing possibility hovers before you, dangled by the generous purse-strings of your family’s staggeringly deep pockets. For in the wake of Aramco’s high-profile defection as Aston Martin’s title sponsor, a Goliath-sized vacuum has opened — one which your father’s IHC conglomerate is uniquely positioned to fill.

For a price, of course.

“Ahmed,” Lawrence greets your father with a curt nod, making no effort to mask his impatience or indifference to decorum. “I’ll cut right to it — what’s your ask here? 25% share in the team? 35? Just name your number so we can get this whole-”

“Actually, Lawrence,” your father interrupts him, sliding off his sunglasses to reveal that piercing gaze that has cowed entire global cabinets into obedience. “I have no interest in an ownership stake. Not in this particular venture.”

The Canadian billionaire pulls up short, clearly thrown by the unexpected rebuff of his assumption. He glances towards his team principal, who can only offer a minute shrug, before turning back to your father with one arched brow.

“Well then … enlighten me,” he prompts with just a hint of renewed interest flickering in those beady eyes. “If not an ownership play, then what’s your angle here?”

Your heart leaps into your throat as your father responds, his words carefully measured but leaving no shred of ambiguity in their intent.

“My desires are rather more … specific. More personal.” Your father casts a meaningful glance in your direction. “As I’m sure you’ve both realized by now, I have a rather more vested interest in the world of Formula 1 beyond mere business or expense portfolios.”

He turns back to Lawrence and Mike, expression inscrutable once more.

“I want a seat for my daughter. On your team.”

The stunned silence that follows is perhaps the loudest absence of sound you’ve ever experienced. Even the distant whirr of machinery from the factory seems to grind to a halt as the two men process your father’s audacious declaration.

You watch them closely, studying their reactions with rapt fascination. With a single conversational grenade, your father has lobbed your ambitions squarely into their laps in a way that cannot be ignored or dismissed as idle fanciful musings. This is a directive from one of the wealthiest sovereign individuals on earth, stressed through the undeniable weight of his tone and body language.

For a few charged seconds, all you can hear is the thundering of your own pulse in your ears.

Then, surprisingly, it is Mike Krack who finds his voice first. The diminutive Luxembourger clears his throat, exchanging a poorly masked look of disbelief with the still dumbstruck Lawrence Stroll.

“With … all due respect, Your Highness,” he begins carefully, as if testing the tensile strength of rice paper with each word. “While I cannot challenge your ambitions for your daughter, a Formula 1 seat is simply not something that can be … appointed through sponsorship alone.”

He pauses again, seeming to hesitate under the level stare of your father. You realize his reaction stems not from any doubts about your abilities - the team principal doesn’t even know you from any other young hopeful dreaming of the F1 grid. His concern is far more fundamental, stemming from the very nature of your gender in this male-dominated world.

“There hasn’t been a female driver on the grid since the 90s and even that was short lived. For good reason — the physical and mental demands are … immense. No offense intended, but perhaps a personal sponsorship targeted towards the F1 Academy or something similar would be-”

“That won’t be necessary,” your father cuts him off with a curt wave of his hand. “My daughter’s credentials should speak for themselves, if you care to review them. She’s competed in — and won — both the Formula 3 and Formula 2 championships over the past four years. I assure you, she is more than prepared to handle the same mental and physical rigors as her male counterparts.”

Silence falls again as Krack and a visibly skeptical Lawrence clearly reassess their earlier assumptions. You feel their analytical gazes washing over you, weighing and measuring as if they can somehow gauge your skills and fortitude based on outward appearances alone.

When Lawrence speaks again, there is a newfound edge of pragmatism in his tone.

“Sure, that’s all well and good on the junior level,” he allows with a slight nod. “Won’t be the first time a hotshot comes up thinking they’re Senna reincarnated only to completely bottle it on the big stage. Happens all the damn time.”

He holds up one hand as your father’s brow furrows dangerously. “But say we do entertain this … suggestion of yours. That still leaves the rather prominent problem of having an open seat to slot her into. In case you haven’t heard, we already signed our team for next year. Only got two cars, last I checked.”

A thin, vindicated smile curves your father’s lips. For all his bluster, the Canadian team owner has just delivered the perfect entry point to reveal his true bargaining chip.

“About that,” the Sheikh murmurs, casting a sidelong glance towards Krack. “I have it on good authority that Aston Martin will, in fact, have a rather convenient vacancy opening up on their driver roster very soon.”

Mike Krack’s expression shutters instantly at the tung-in-cheek reference, no doubt recognizing the inside information that could only have come from one of his own drivers or personnel leaking like a sieve. His eyes slide momentarily toward Lawrence in wordless apology.

Your father doesn’t miss a beat, pressing his advantage with the casual confidence of a man who has spent a lifetime wielding power and influence as deftly as others use voice tonality.

“Fernando Alonso’s impending retirement may well be the worst kept secret in the paddock, no?” He arches one eloquent brow at the increasingly chagrined team principal. “A Delta Topco investor of mine happened to mention the championship-winning Spaniard has been snapping up quite an impressive Swiss real estate portfolio as of late ...”

The comment hangs engulfed in awkward silence as even Lawrence seems slightly taken aback by your father’s easy name-dropping of proprietary team intel. You realize with a start that this is a glimpse into the upper realms of global power and business dealing you’ve only ever witnessed from the outside — the effortless ability to command knowledge and find out even the most classified information with just a few strategically-placed calls or leanings of influence.

It’s Krack who finally capitulates first, clearing his throat again as he darts a helpless glance towards the team owner. “Clearly … this exit has been, ah, on the team’s radar for some time. We’ve been exploring our options, but-”

“But you haven’t had to make it official yet, yes yes of course,” your father interjects, waving off the rest of his explanation with an airy flick of his wrist. “Which brings us back to the matter at hand.”

He pins them both with a pointed look, any trace of ambiguity evaporating from the scorching intensity of his gaze.

“Gentlemen, I will get straight to the point — Aston Martin requires a new title sponsor to remain financially solvent and competitive on the Formula 1 grid. International Holding Company has the resources and reach to provide that sponsorship, effectively in perpetuity if need be.”

His mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile, though there is no warmth in the expression whatsoever. This is a businessman reveling in checkmate before the final stroke is even delivered.

“All I require in exchange is one of the seats that will be so … conveniently vacated.”

A heavy silence falls over the courtyard once more. You watch Lawrence and Mike exchange another loaded glance, wrestling with the realization that your father seems to hold all the leverage in this particular negotiation. The cool confidence radiating from the Sheikh suggests he is more than comfortable walking away from this deal if they prove … unreasonable.

Finally, Lawrence seems to decide upon the path of least resistance. The corners of the Canadian billionaire’s mouth tug downwards in displeasure, but he offers a curt nod of acceptance.

“You’re twisting one hell of a knife, I’ll give you that, Ahmed,” he mutters, clearly taking no joy in the literal quid pro quo being forced upon Aston Martin’s future solvency. “Okay, fine. We agree to your … terms, shall we say. One seat on the grid for the 2025 season in exchange for IHC’s sponsorship.”

Both men turn their assessing gazes towards you once again. There is no missing the skepticism and doubt burning behind their studied neutrality. They have clearly accepted your presence on the team as nothing more than a necessary evil to be endured in exchange for the monetary incentive.

There will be no welcoming embraces or admiring back-slaps from these two men hardened by decades in the cutthroat world of business and motorsport politics. You are a costly contractual obligation to them at this point, one they have no emotional investment in whatsoever.

There is only one way to change that. Only one path to earn their acknowledgement and respect.

You lock eyes with Stroll and then Krack in turn. When you finally find your voice, it comes out low and thrumming with absolute conviction.

“I will earn my place on that grid. And any doubts you may have now will be extinguished when I take that Aston across the finish line first.”

It’s a bold statement, perhaps even arrogant from an unproven rookie. But it has been woven into the very fabric of who you are over a decade and a half of sacrifice, discipline, and unwavering paternal support. You are a daughter forged from renewed sands by the sheer force of your father’s will into a warrior princess.

Doubt is no longer a luxury you can entertain, now that your dream looms so close at hand.

Your father casts you a faint, proud smile — the only outward sign he will permit of his profound approval and respect for the woman you have become. His eyes glitter with razor-sharp ambition.

“My daughter speaks true,” he declares, turning back to Lawrence and Krack with a challenging arch of his brow. “But of course … I expect you’ll both prefer to judge her for yourselves on the track.”

Lawrence’s perfunctory nod is perhaps a touch more intrigued now, a glimmer of renewed interest flickering behind those impassive eyes. For the first time, he seems to be assessing you as an actual person and athlete rather than some implausible imposition. A sliver of doubt appears to prick at the stony edge of his demeanor.

Mike Krack simply inclines his head in acquiescence, the perfect picture of professional decorum regardless of his personal misgivings. Smart money would place him as one of the individuals funneling inside information about Alonso’s moves to your father’s sources. He is clearly not about to push his luck any further by voicing unnecessary dissent or challenge.

“Very well then,” your father concludes with an air of finality, turning towards Lawrence with an expectant look. “Shall we go ahead and make this official?”

The billionaire businessmen meet in the center of the small gathering, squaring off like two prize fighters preparing for the bell. You watch with bated breath, heart thundering in your chest, as they size one another up for the final moments of the negotiation.

Then, in one smooth motion, they clasp hands and exchange a firm shake — sealing your life’s ambition into ironclad reality. A barely perceptible nod of understanding passes between them, an acknowledgment that despite all the complexities and nuances, there is now a deal on the table that benefits them all.

Your father has successfully leveraged every ounce of his wealth, power, and influence to deliver on his decade’s old promise to you. The seat, the sponsorship … everything has been set into motion.

The only thing left is for you to drive.

***

“Are they seriously going to make us do this?”

Lance Stroll’s voice carries a distinct whine as he hunches lower on the leather couch, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the small crew setting up lights and cameras around the Aston Martin hospitality unit. His lanky frame is dressed down in team-issued sweats, tousled hair lopped into that carefully cultivated ‘I woke up like this’ aesthetic he seems to spend hours perfecting.

You shoot your new teammate a sidelong glance, arching one sculpted brow at his apparent distress. Despite being the owner’s son and growing up immersed in the utmost privilege, Lance still seems to find novel ways to broadcast his discomfort with the fame and exposure that comes with being an F1 driver.

“What, you’ve never had to film some cringey sponsor vid or team propaganda before?” You tease him lightly, unable to resist needling him a bit. There’s a certain giddy thrill at realizing you now share an equal standing with Lance on this global stage — though you still frequently have to remind yourself of that fact.

Lance shifts again, slouching further into the plush cushions with a frown. You watch his finely-boned features scrunch up petulantly, and can’t quite resist rolling your eyes.

“I mean, yeah, of course I have,” he mumbles, suddenly finding great interest in inspecting his nails. “But those were always pre-scripted or completely faked, y’know? This just seems so ...”

“Menial? Frivolous?” You arch a taunting brow at him. “For the son of a billionaire businessman and an actual princess?”

He blinks, thrown briefly off-guard as you remind him of your own lofty status with a wry grin. It’s still a novel concept for him to process, you can tell — the idea of an Arab woman of royal lineage daring to enter the same playing field, to consider herself an equal.

Good. It will make savoring his skepticism all the more satisfying when you blow past him on the circuit.

“Just don’t get too used to all this, alright?” He rallies, regaining some of his trademark swagger as he jerks his chin towards the ever-growing gaggle of team personnel crowding the lounge area. “We’re still teammates and all, but on the track … well, may the best nepo baby win.”

You laugh at his attempt at posturing, gentling nudging his foot with your own in an uncharacteristically playful gesture. “Don’t worry, Lancelot, I’ll go easy on you,” you tease. “Baba always did say to respect one’s elders, after all.”

Lance’s indignant sputter of outrage at your jibe is mercifully cut off by the arrival of one of the producers, a slim woman in stylish athleisure attire adorned with Aston Martin’s iconic green cues. She claps her hands together with a bubbly smile.

“Hiya, names Chelsea, nice to meet you both!” She chirps in a distinctly American accent, utterly unbothered by the two pairs of eyes swiveling to size her up with varying levels of dulled enthusiasm.

“We’re going to keep things pretty simple for this one — just a quick, low-stakes game to help get you guys on camera and build some pre-season hype on the socials, yeah?” Chelsea continues brightly, gesturing for her crew to finish setting up the lighting and cameras.

“Ooo, a game?” You perk up instantly, intrigued. As a lifelong academic overachiever, any type of challenge or opportunity to demonstrate your brain muscle still manages to activate the synapses of childish glee. “I do love a bit of friendly competition ...”

“Not if it’s going to be anything too taxing, I hope,” Lance drawls with an exaggerated yawn. He mimes checking an invisible watch on his bare wrist. “Do we at least get snack breaks? This jet lag is a killer and I need to keep my strength up ...”

You can’t resist rolling your eyes again as Chelsea laughs politely, clearly recognizing his pampered shtick for what it is. She pauses to check her notes on a tablet before continuing.

“Well, good news for you then — your mental fortitude won’t be too strained today. We’re going to keep things pretty light. We’ll just have some common, everyday items for you two to identify and guess the purchase prices. Easy peasy! More variety show games than trigonometry.”

Chelsea grins, unaware of the subtle way the blood seems to drain from your teammate’s face. You blink once, digesting her words, before a bemused smile finds its way across your own lips.

“Wait … they’re actually going to ask us to identify grocery prices and things?” You shake your head in disbelief. “No, this has to just be a wind-up, right? Even in this economy, there’s no way the team can be serious about-”

“Unfortunately, we are painfully earnest on this one, kids,” Another voice pipes up, accompanied by the familiar cadence of an East London accent.

Jack, a senior member of the Aston team’s creative division, slouches against the doorway to the lounge with his customary smirk already in place. Clearly this was his brainchild — a casual hazing ritual for the team’s most privilege-addled members.

“See, the blokes upstairs figure since you two grew up way closer to hedge fund managers than grocery checkout queues … could be a bit of a laugh, yeah?” He jerks his chin towards you both with a conspiratorial wink. “Just a bit of fun for the fans, have a go at seein’ how the young rich kids guess costs of plebeian things like bananas and bread loaves. Been a hit with the other teams, gets good traction on social, all innocent fun and whatnot.”

“Told you it would be taxing ...” Lance grumbles under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as if staving off the first twinges of a migraine.

You, however, find yourself rather intrigued by Jack’s premise. It does seem a fairly innocuous way to let the fans peek behind the curtain at the lives of their favorite drivers, to which you and Lance represent the extreme ends of wealth disparity.

More than that, however, some tiny kernel of competitive ego has taken root in your chest, issuing a silent challenge. What better way to prove you are more well-rounded and less out-of-touch than the reputation that clearly precedes you both?

Let Lance play into the indolent, affluent caricature that paints all of F1’s rising stars in broad strokes. You, however, were raised under a rather different philosophy ...

“You know what, I think this sounds rather amusing,” you announce with a demure shrug of your shoulders, catching Lance’s incredulous stare head-on. “Should be … illuminating.”

From his spot by the door, Jack lets out a dry cackle of amusement. Chelsea, bless her, maintains her gracious professionalism despite sensing the rising undercurrents of upper-crust posturing between the two of you.

“Brilliant, that’s the spirit!” She cuts in brightly, clapping her hands together again. “Everyone just follow my lead, we’ll start off nice and easy ...”

Within a few minutes, the cameras are rolling, framing the two of you seated opposite one another on the couch. A small table sits between you, ready to display the variety of day-to-day items you’ll be asked to examine and appraise.

At Chelsea’s behest, a production assistant brings out a single, slightly bruised banana and places it on the table with an audible thunk. You instantly feel Lance’s gaze swivel in your direction, doubtlessly already anticipating whatever absurd denomination you’re about to slap on the unremarkable piece of fruit.

“Alright, then we’re live starting in 3 … 2 ...” Chelsea narrates before cueing the two of you with a brilliant smile and a wink. “Welcome back everyone, today we’ve got Lance and our newest driver Y/N here to play a little guessing game for us!”

She gestures grandly towards the table, injecting her effervescent delivery with just the right mix of playful condescension.

“First item up — something anyone can find at their local shops or markets. A nice, appealing banana. Question is … what would our two racers be willing to pay for such a humble thing? Off the lot, so to speak. Y/N, love? What do you reckon this banana would cost?”

You swallow back the first, instinctive answer that comes to mind — that it likely doesn’t cost anything, seeing as fresh produce is always plucked from your family’s private orchards and greenhouses at a moment’s notice. Instead, you force yourself to consider the question from the perspective of a supposed commoner, out doing their weekly shopping.

“Well ...” You begin slowly, chin cradled in one hand as you lean forward to examine the fruit. “I suppose bananas don’t seem terribly expensive, do they? Just a bit of potassium and carbs, good for starting the day strong and beating any energy troughs during exercise ...”

Chelsea nods encouragingly, hanging on your every word in that canned, just-over-dramatized manner of most TV personalities. Across from you, Lance is already pinching his nose again, eyes squeezed shut as if preparing himself for the inevitable bomb you’re about to drop.

With a decisive nod, you fix your eyes directly on the camera and proclaim, “Ten euros for a single banana seems perfectly reasonable in this economic climate, no?”

The silence that falls over the lounge is damn near deafening. You watch Chelsea’s overly-rehearsed presenter mask slip for just a moment, features contorting into naked shock. Even Jack the producer lapses into a rare moment of speechlessness, mouth hanging open in slack-jawed disbelief.

At your side, Lance finally breaks, collapsing forward as his frame is wracked with deep, abdominal convulsions of laughter.

“Sweet merciful …" He finally manages to gasp out between ragged gasps. Long, spindly fingers clutch at his stomach as tears of mirth stream down his reddened cheeks. “Ten … fucking … euros! For a banana?”

Any residual thoughts you may have had about defying expectations and proving your economic awareness swiftly crumble to dust amidst the howls of laughter. You gape at your teammate, feeling your cheeks flaming with a mix of confusion and growing embarrassment as the reality of your inflated estimate crashes over you.

“Well … it’s … it’s not THAT outrageous, is it?” You sputter in a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation. “I’d just assumed, with the import tariffs and global agricultural strife we’ve seen as of late-”

“Stop, stop! Just … stop ...” Lance wheezes, waving his hands in surrender before you can dig the hole any deeper. “I can’t … I actually can’t breathe right now.”

“For the record, love,” Jack pipes up from his doorway perch. “Stores don’t even charge ten euros for a bunch of bananas, let alone one lousy nanner.”

The production assistant responsible for presenting the fruit chimes in with a faint “20 pence, last I checked,” sending Lance into another spiral of unbridled cackles.

Just like that, any delusion of cultured cosmopolitan grace you may have carried has been utterly incinerated. You are as transparently affluent as the rest of them assumed, your upbringing and lifestyle so sequestered from normalcy that even the simple prices of supermarket produce have become alien concepts.

And the realization that you are still young, still so new to this entire experience, hits you with sobering impact. For so long, you had believed your decade and a half of single-minded pursuit had prepared you for seamlessly joining the elite ranks of your new career.

But one ill-fated guess at a banana’s cost was all it took to remind you that, in many ways, the learning curve you face goes far beyond simply whipping a turbo-hybrid around a few iconic circuits.

As Chelsea scrambles to regain control of the taping and cycle in a new item, Lance leans over with the last dregs of laughter still shuddering his lean frame.

“You’re totally gonna get us roasted online for this, you know?” He murmurs, lips quirked in that devilish smirk you’re already becoming accustomed to. “Maybe we should schedule a field trip to, y’know … go grocery shopping or something? Little crash course before the damage gets too widespread?”

Despite his smarmy delivery, you recognize the extended olive branch for what it is — an acknowledgment that you’re both very much still kids stumbling into a world of intense scrutiny and maturity. A reminder that you’re on the same team, for better or worse.

So you shoot him a wry grin in return, squaring your shoulders as Chelsea presents the next mundane item with a theatrical flourish.

“Oh, I have a feeling the roasting you speak of has only just begun, Lancelot,” you proclaim with an arch of one challenging brow. “But if prices shock me so thoroughly … what’s your excuse going to be?”

His widening smirk is all the response you require. Teammates or not, this is still a competition on and off the track.

An education, regardless of how humbling, is about to be had.

***

The media center in Melbourne’s Albert Park is a churning sea of humanity when you arrive. Journalists from every corner of the globe jostle for position, clutching voice recorders and branded lanyards as they await the start of the season’s first official press conference.

Despite the pandemonium, an anticipatory hush falls over the assembled scribes when you are led to the makeshift stage alongside Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen, George Russell, and Oscar Piastri. The five of you settle into the leather chairs arrayed in a semicircle, blinking furiously under the brilliant TV lights as you ready yourselves for the onslaught of questions.

Your heart pounds in your ears, palms suddenly slick with nervous perspiration as you fight to maintain an aura of calm composure. Though you’ve been groomed practically since birth to carry yourself with regal poise, this is an entirely new arena you find yourself in. One where pedigreed lineage and family legacy afford no protection or leg up.

This is the world where you will either rise or fall based purely on your own deeds behind the wheel and words under fire. No longer will a dismissive wave of your father’s hand send underlings scattering — here, you will have to forge your own path, earn every scrap of credibility and respect.

The thought is at once thrilling and utterly terrifying.

You do your best to focus as the opening preambles and formalities commence, nodding politely when your name is announced along with your Aston Martin team affiliation. A small, fiercely proud smile tugs at your lips as the FIA moderator rattles off your accomplishments in the junior formulae.

Multiple feeder series championships across Europe and Asia, becoming the first Arab woman to compete in the FIA single-seater ladder. A true pioneer transcending societal norms and expectations.

This is your chance to let that very accomplishment shine on its own merits. An opportunity to prove you belong here through your own grit and talent, free from the protective umbrella provided by your family name and wealth.

The first question, mercifully, comes from a fellow Emirati news outlet. The young man politely identifies himself and his publication before addressing you.

“Your Highness, as the first woman from our part of the world to ascend to this level of motorsport, what does this achievement mean for you? How important is it to serve as an inspiration for other young Arab women and girls with big dreams?”

You exhale slowly, offering the man a grateful smile at the respectful phrasing. This is the type of insightful perspective you’d been hoping to discuss — the gravity of overcoming generations of patriarchal norms, the significance of inspiring an entire culture to see women as strong and capable.

“Well, it is an immense honor and privilege to hopefully be paving the way for other young women, both in my region and all around the globe,” you begin, falling easily into the poised cadence you’ve honed since childhood.

“This was a dream I was fortunate enough to have the support system to chase from a very young age, despite the conventions of my culture. I know there are countless other girls out there with the same fire, the same ambitions, who have been discouraged or dismissed simply for being born female. If my example can shine a light on a new way forward, can help uplift even one other person to take up the mantle and fight for their passions … then every obstacle I faced along the way will have been worth it.”

A smattering of polite applause ripples across the room and you incline your head graciously, relieved to have navigated one of these public inquisitions so smoothly on the first go. Perhaps this won’t prove as daunting as you feared, after all.

The next few questions are mercifully innocuous as well — standard inquiries about dealing with the pressures of F1, relationships with teammates and engineers, your personal driving style and technical strengths. Child’s play for someone with your extensively cultivated presence before the media cameras.

You are settling into a contented, borderline cocky rhythm when the tone of the press conference takes an abrupt turn.

“Your Highness,” a gravelly voice suddenly rings out, immediately catching your attention as one of the gruffer correspondents gestures for the mic with poorly disguised impatience. He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably as every head swivels in his direction. “Given your … background, and the societal norms you’ve admittedly had to overcome, does it give you any pause that women’s bodies may simply not be able to handle the extraordinary G-forces and physicality required to pilot one of these beasts around a track for hours at a time?”

The silence that falls across the media room is positively deafening. You can sense the other drivers beside you tensing, no doubt steeling themselves for the oncoming wreckage they can see barreling down the line.

For your part, you simply blink once, twice — allowing the weight of the man’s insinuation to fully descend like an iron shroud and smother you from every side. Any joviality or adrenaline from the earlier back-and-forth evaporates in a searing wave of incredulous rage.

Before you can so much as draw breath to respond, however, the reporter has already pressed on with the ruthless zeal of a jackal going for the kill.

“Furthermore, with all the perceived advantages provided to you by your … esteemed heritage ...” He sneers the words with no small hint of derision. “How can we be certain you aren’t simply some vanity pet project for your father to amuse himself with? That this isn’t merely an attempt by Emirati royalty to assert itself in yet another arena in a flamboyant display of ego and excess?”

Dead silence. Not even the sound of a pen scratching or camera shutter cutting across the vacuum of noise as the entire room seems to be holding its collective breath.

You can feel your heart pounding once more, though this time it thunders in furious sync with the scorching rapids of your own rising temper. How dare this absolute jackass reduce your life’s work and sacrifice to some sexist, patronizing narrative about Daddy writing checks?

“How dare you ...” you begin in a low, menacing tone — only to be smoothly interrupted by the one voice you’d never expect.

“Oh, on the contrary,” Charles Leclerc speaks up from your right, smooth and controlled until now. “How can any of us be so fortunate?”

Every head pivots to regard the Ferrari driver, astounded by his interjection on your behalf. Up until now, Leclerc has maintained his signature cool, borderline impassive demeanor during interviews and pressers.

But now the Monegasque racer leans forward, forearms resting on the table as he fixes the hapless reporter with a look of genuine, cutting disdain.

“Here we have the first woman to race in F1 in decades, shattering years of patriarchal norms to achieve her lifelong ambition on the single most demanding stage of our sport,” he continues in a deliberate, measured tone. “And your very first instinct is to make tired, sexist implications about the frailty of her gender and body? And then to have the audacity to insult her even further by suggesting she couldn’t possibly be here on her own merits?”

Leclerc pauses, allowing his stinging rebuke to hang in the air. You glance around to see the matching expressions of discomfort and secondhand embarrassment painted on the features of your fellow drivers.

“For someone meant to be among the world’s most informed observers of our sport, your remarks are about as offensively misguided and stunted as I could possibly imagine,” Charles finishes with an unmistakable air of finality, folding his arms across his chest. He looks utterly disgusted, but there is an undercurrent of protective ice in his voice that raises the tiny hairs on your arms.

Before the flailing reporter can attempt to concoct some garbled justification for his outrageously inappropriate line of questioning, another voice pipes up — this one bearing the bright, airy lilt of an American accent.

“So, Y/N,” the younger woman interjects, clearly hoping to spare you all any further ugliness, “To pivot away from all that noise for a second … what was your initial reaction when it was announced you had secured the Aston seat? Did you do, like a big celebration or anything?”

You blink a few times, as if rebooting from Leclerc’s unexpected defense. When your mind finally reconnects, you offer the American reporter a grateful smile and a pointed glance towards Charles before speaking.

“You know, we didn’t go too over-the-top or anything,” you reply, welcoming the chance to shift to a fresh topic and get this presser back on track. “I’ll save that for the podium come race day.”

A smattering of relieved laughter ripples through the room, the tension level lowering incrementally as the debacle proceeds. You catch Charles’ subtle nod of acknowledgment across the table, his jaw marginally less taut now that the conversation has regained its footing.

From there, the presser proceeds relatively smoothly — more questions about favorite circuits and tactical approaches for the season, obligatory banter about inter-team rivalries and the usual window dressing. All through it, you feel a profound sense of gratitude for Leclerc’s willingness to essentially co-sign on your abilities and condemn the subversive misogyny lurking in that reporter’s pointed questions.

By the time the closing remarks and thank yous commence, you’ve already made up your mind to seek Charles out on your own to voice your appreciation and admiration.

You are among the first to rise and exit the media bullpen, practically speed-walking around the side of the building in hopes of catching Leclerc before he can retreat into Ferrari’s impenetrable bubble of flunkies and handlers.

“Charles! Hey, Charles — wait up a sec!”

The lean figure pauses and turns as you trot up, tilting his head inquisitively as you draw up short just in front of him.

“Sorry, hope you don’t mind me ambushing you like this,” you begin, barely suppressing the warm flush already creeping into your cheeks under his focused attention. “I just wanted to say … thank you for that. In there, I mean. What you said — how you handled that asshole’s ignorance before I could even begin responding.”

Charles’ expression flits momentarily through surprise before settling into its customary affable warmth. “Oh, that? Don’t mention it, Y/N. God knows we’ve all had to deal with our fair share of insufferable pricks on the media circuit at one point or another.”

He shrugs, as if his public solidarity with a fellow competitor were the most trivial, obvious hill to plant himself on. You feel a sudden swell of respect and admiration for the Ferrari star rise within you.

“Besides,” he continues with a casual, “How could I not defend the up-and-coming driver who gets to experience insane misogyny and ridiculous societal restraints while also knowing what it’s like to eat gold flake sundaes daily?” He shoots you a playful wink, dimples creasing his cheeks. “The duality of a princess is a heavy burden indeed ...”

You let out a peal of laughter, genuinely caught off-guard by the cheeky charm behind the dig at your privileged lineage. Far from offense, you find his irreverent humor utterly refreshing in the face of excessive nobility.

“It is a tragic affliction, I must admit,” you retort, placing one hand over your heart in mock solemnity. “But one I shall bear with dignity and poise. For my people.”

Your laughter fades into a more pensive expression, honeyed eyes finding his in an unspoken exchange of sincere emotions.

“But truly, Charles, thank you. I meant what I said in there — about wanting to inspire other women to fight for their dreams. To have someone like you leap to defend those ambitions right out of the gate … it means more than you can possibly know.”

He regards you with a speculative sort of new interest for a stretched moment before nodding slowly.

“I meant what I said too, Y/N,” he replies, utterly sincere. “If having to dress down a few assholes in public is what it takes to further that inspiration … well, that’s a pretty easy charge for me to take up.”

A fresh surge of resolve and determination irons out your features into that same unmovable resolve you inherited from your father. In that instant, you see the man Charles will hopefully become — a true legend and respected custodian of the sport, unwavering in his principles.

“Regardless, I’d love to find some way to properly thank you once we get back to Monaco,” you venture, wondering how far you can stretch this newfound rapport with the Ferrari star. “Maybe I could take you out for dinner or something next week? My treat, obviously.”

A faint flicker of surprise ghosts across Charles’ expression before that patented dimpled half-smile returns.

“Monaco? Oh, I’d love to, but I’m actually not sure if-”

He trails off, shaking his head in a rueful sort of resignation.

“Ah, merde — what I mean is that I just got word this morning that my flight back has been canceled due to some raised travel advisory or other. Classic airline nonsense.”

Your brows wing upwards as your sharp mind cycles immediately to the obvious solution.

“Well, in that case, why don’t you just come back on my plane?”

The words are out of your mouth before you can properly consider the context of your own casual statement. Leclerc blinks — Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he processes your incredibly nonchalant reference to having your own personal aircraft.

“... your plane?” He echoes, a new glint entering his stare as he studies you with fresh gravity.

You wave one hand in a dismissive little flourish, your practiced regal upbringing suddenly very apparent in the effortless hauteur radiating from you.

“Well of course, Charles — you didn’t think I flew commercial, did you?” Your nose wrinkles in feigned distaste as you grin up at him. “No, no — my family maintains a full fleet. I’m scheduled to return to Monaco via the 747 after the weekend wraps.”

Now it is the Ferrari star’s turn to look utterly gobsmacked, any veneer of media-trained poise utterly dissolving at your casual reference to owning a jumbo jet as if it were something as trivial as a sedan or motorcycle. His eyes bore into you with sudden intensity, as if seeing you in an entirely new light.

You can practically see the mental math exploding across his expression — the private security details, the designer casualwear on your lithe frame, the stunning and no doubt priceless jewelry glittering at your throat and wrists. All the tell-tale signs of absurd, eighth-continent-money levels of wealth.

And here you are, acting as if maintaining your own plane is just another given amenity ...

“Wait ...” he begins slowly, still processing the full scope of what you’ve so dismissively unveiled. “You’re telling me you have an actual, like … a 747 just sitting around that you use to fly wherever the hell you want?”

You blink owlishly up at him, momentarily bewildered by the sheer shock on his face. Surely the finer nuances of just how rich your family is couldn’t have escaped him completely up to now, could it?

So you simply shrug, offering him a playful smirk in a bid to diffuse any perceived arrogance or condescension on your part.

“More or less, yes,” you confirm breezily, pointedly ignoring his incredulity. “So what say you, Monsieur Leclerc? Shall we share a ride back to the riviera? I promise the in-flight movies are decent, at least.”

For a long moment, Charles can only stare at you, astounded at the bottomless depths of absurdity that is your birthright and lineage. Just when you think he may have simply short-circuited into a vegetative state, however, his mouth abruptly curves upwards into a devilish grin of epiphany.

“You know what?” He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelieving amusement. “In that case, you’re on. A nice flight back to Monaco sounds … perfect for a little post-race pick-me-up.”

You can’t help but smirk triumphantly as Charles extends one hand, which you accept in a firm shake.

Some rigid societal expectations among the royalty and aristocracy may be slow to evolve, but others? They’ve prepared you for the political game that is Formula 1.

***

The late afternoon sunlight slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Monaco apartment, casting warm geometric patterns across the plush marble tile. You lie draped over one of the oversized couches, aimlessly scrolling on your phone in a rare moment of quiet downtime.

Or rather, you’re hanging completely upside down on the couch, bare feet kicked up over the back cushions as you flick through a few inane social media feeds. The blood is just starting to rush towards your head in an oddly calming wash when the soft snick of the entryway lock disengaging catches your attention.

“Mon amour?” Charles’ familiar, lightly-accented voice rings out from the foyer. “You home?”

“In here!” You call back, not bothering to right yourself as your boyfriend’s lean silhouette appears in the archway, shrugging out of his leather jacket.

He spots your inverted form sprawled across the sitting area and shakes his head with a bemused chuckle, all tousled chestnut curls and devilish dimples.

“Must you always hang about like an overgrown cat?” He chides playfully, moving to settle onto the adjacent sofa. Even after nearly five months of dating, Charles still seems perpetually amused by your tendency to shirk regal posture and poise whenever afforded the opportunity. “Is gravity simply too much effort for royalty these days … "

“Your mockery wounds my very soul, kind sir,” you drone in a monotone false-lament, never breaking eye contact with the Ferrari star as your arms dangle limply towards the floor. “Should I have the servants fetch you a fainting couch to make up for my uncouth posture?”

Charles snorts, watching you with undisguised affection as he stretches out on the other sofa. “And they say chivalry is dead ...”

One callused hand comes up to gently brush an errant lock of hair away from your face, fingers trailing across your cheek in a simple caress. After so many months of sneaking heated looks across press conference panels and fielding ruthless speculation over your rumored involvement, moments like this still spark a bewildered sort of giddy thrill within you.

Here is Il Predestinato himself, someone blessed with every imaginable advantage — talent, wealth, fame, charisma. Yet it is you, the comparative newcomer raised worlds away, who seems to hold his singular focus even in the quiet stillness.

“Is this some new fitness fad the rest of us ignorant plebeians should be made aware of?” Charles inquires after a pregnant pause, arching one brow at your upended state.

He knows you too well by now, you muse — knows how prone you are to defying expectation or traditional high society conventions whenever the mood strikes. So rather than offer any excuse or justification, you simply shrug airily.

“Just experimenting with different … perspectives for the time being,” you retort, sticking your tongue out at him and reveling in the simple, teasing intimacy of the moment. “The world tends to look rather different when you turn everything on its head.”

“Isn’t that the truth ...” Charles hums, shifting ever-so-slightly closer before changing tacts. “Well, on that note … I’ve found myself with a rather unique perspective to share this evening.”

Your interest is instantly piqued, head lolling to one side as you regard the Ferrari star with renewed focus. One hand leaves its resting place on your abdomen, fingers wiggling inquisitively.

“Oh? Do tell, Monsieur Leclerc ...”

Charles chuckles again, low and genuine, before his emerald gaze turns pointedly opaque. Even now, after sharing countless impromptu evenings watching mind melting reality television and indulgent private vacations, he still retains the ability to utterly captivate your attention.

“Well, this particular news is rather more ...” He pauses for dramatic effect, pursing those perpetually kiss-plumped lips as if savoring the impending reveal. "... interesting.”

You exhale a petulant little huff, fighting the urge to stick your foot in his face or throw one of the decorative cushions at him.

“Charles, if this is meant to build suspense over you finally buying that fancy vacuum you won’t shut up about, I swear by the — mmph!”

Your playful griping is cut off as Charles suddenly lunges across the short distance separating your couches, capturing your lips in a fierce, silencing kiss. You squirm slightly at the abrupt shift in dynamics, the world seeming to spin and right itself as muscular forearms slide beneath you to gather you up into his lap.

By the time he finally pulls back, leaving you both breathless and slightly disheveled, you find yourself settled firmly in Charles’ sturdy embrace. Two sets of lidded eyes glaze over one another, reveling in the familiar intoxicating rush of chemistry.

“Easy there, mon ange,” he murmurs once you’ve both caught your respective breaths, one palm smoothing up and down your spine in an idle caress. “I promise this is a rather more agreeable surprise than debating vacuums.”

You watch, bemused, as his free hand dips into the inner pocket of his hoodie, withdrawing a familiar red envelope sealed with the unmistakable prancing horse emblem of Ferrari. Your heart rate instantly kicks up another notch at the mere sight of it, that infernal curiosity burning hotter than ever.

“The team initially planned to hand this off through proper channels,” Charles continues, expression inscrutable as he toys with the envelope, thumb tracing its embossed crest. “But given the … personal opportunity it presented, I thought it only appropriate to circumvent protocol this once.”

With that, he extends the envelope towards you, a silent offer for you to take up whatever life-altering missive lies within. You swallow hard against the sudden lump of anticipation welling in your throat, looking from the envelope, to Charles, and back again.

“What … what is this?” You croak, hating how fragile and uncertain your voice sounds.

Charles’ smile is soft as warm brandy, suffused with unguarded affection and pride. A pride not for himself, but for the very caliber of opportunity before you.

“For you,” he murmurs simply. “For your boundless determination to achieve in the face of adversity. This is the ultimate reward for outrunning not just your competitors, but the very expectations of an entire sport.”

The breath leaves your body in a dizzying rush as sudden realization crystallizes in your mind. How many nights have the two of you stayed up into the wee hours, idly discussing dream teams and potential openings across the grid? Debating which partnerships could provide the optimal platform for success?

This envelope bears no stamp or mailing address. But its rich, unmistakable crimson design and gleaming logo render such mundane addressing unnecessary. There is only one organization with the status to deliver their most sensitive communications in such an iconic manner.

With trembling hands, you accept the envelope, taking care not to smudge or crinkle its embossed insignia as you turn it over. Slowly, reverentially, you peel open the wax seal and slide out the sheaf of papers tucked within, eyes hungrily scanning the blocky sans-serif text:

SUBJECT: Ferrari Driver Offer, 2026 Season

Your breath catches in your throat, the words seeming to blur in a shimmering haze as hot tears instantly prick the corners of your eyes.

This isn’t merely a summons from Scuderia Ferrari. This isn’t a polite inquiry or negotiation tactic meant to bolster future value or status.

This is a formal contract, stamped with all the hallmarks of managerial approval ...

An invitation to join the most legendary name in all of motorsport as one of its drivers.

You shake your head in stunned disbelief, hardly daring to blink as your scrutinize every word, every assurance and term of agreement laid out in stark black ink.

It’s there, immaculate and absolute — a seat beside Charles for the 2026 season, to be finalized pending your confirmation and the exit of one former world champion.

Lewis Hamilton’s retirement.

The news had broken last month over the Ferrari driver’s surprise announcement that he would be exiting Formula 1 at the conclusion of the 2025 calendar year. Just one championship shy of his stated goal of eclipsing Michael Schumacher’s record for most drivers’ titles, the British superstar shocked the sporting world by revealing he was finally ready to step away from the cockpit and move on to other endeavors.

Speculation had run rampant, of course, over who within the sport’s glittering ranks of young up-and-comers had the talent and mettle to fill such an impossible void. You’d jokingly thrown about a host of names whenever the discussion arose with Charles, more content to fantasize and daydream rather than entertain any serious expectations.

Yet here it lies in your hands, in unblemished print. Proof that you’ve smashed through yet another carbon fiber-coated glass ceiling specifically by shattering every limitation placed upon your ambitions.

You glance up to find Charles gauging your reaction with a tender intensity akin to a besotted schoolboy, as if readying himself to sweep you off your feet all over again should you swoon from the news. Suddenly his every gesture from the moment he walked through your front door this evening makes perfect sense — the dramatics, the playful banter, and maddening evasiveness.

This was his way of showing you he’d listened, absorbed every idle comment or perceived slight you’d ever murmured over the proving grounds of your respective talents. That he saw and cherished every spark of hunger in your honeyed gaze, evident in your determination to continue defying odds not only as a woman — but as a pioneer hoping to be immortalized within motorsport.

The tears spill over at last, streaking unchecked down your cheeks as a tremulous laugh bubbles up unbidden from your chest. You lift one hand to shakily wipe at the dampness, willing yourself not to become an incoherent, hiccuping mess on the precipice of such a monumental achievement.

“I … I don’t even...” You begin, shaking your head slowly. For once, the woman raised to carry herself with poise and dignity in any station finds herself utterly bereft of words.

Charles merely watches and waits, soft sleeve brushing away the fresh tears tracking across your cheeks before cradling your jaw in one warm palm. Those mesmerizing eyes bore into yours with aching sincerity, seeing straight through you down to the deliriously euphoric riot of emotions swirling in your chest.

“Ferrari recognizes your spirit, your passion for this life, because it is the same fire that has forever stoked the heart of the Scuderia,” he murmurs, thumb smoothing an idle arc over the plump swell of your lower lip.

“They chose you not because you are a symbol — a pretty flag for them to rally under and wave as some achievement in name only. They see you as the next tireless warrior to pour their full belief into achieving victory.” A soft, affectionate breath of laughter escapes him, warm and adoring. “Which I know for a fact is the only ambition you’ve ever given a single damn about.”

You release a watery giggle at that, nodding in fervent agreement as you reach up to cradle the back of his neck, anchoring yourself in the tender solidity of his touch. Weeks and months of dogged speculation over prospects and vacancies, endlessly weighing the potential upshots and pitfalls of every career trajectory before you ...

… and here it waits, bold and singular as the sun itself — your chance to immortalize yourself among the hallowed ranks of Formula 1 royalty.

“You were made for this, mon cœur,” Charles continues, fingers trailing down the side of your neck in a gentle graze. “Your spirit, your sheer determination to shatter every obstacle placed in your way — Ferrari sees that fire blazing in you. It’s why they want you.”

He leans in, resting his forehead against your own as his lips curve into a devastatingly handsome smile, dimples peeking through.

“And not because of any family name or billions or royal pedigree you carry … but precisely because of how hard you’ve fought to strip all that away on the track. To make your own name and legacy that matters.”

The words strike you like the sweetest, most poignant arrow straight through your heart. And isn’t that what you’ve craved since the earliest dawning flickers of your obsession with this beautiful, brutal sport — recognition and triumph earned purely on your own merits?

You are no longer a Sheikha first, racing driver second. You are Y/N Y/L/N, Scuderia Ferrari driver in the making.

Before you can even find the words to respond — and what words could ever suffice at a moment like this — you are surging forward to capture Charles’ plush mouth with your own. The contract flutters forgotten to the floor as you pour every ounce of exhilarated gratitude and ardor into the fevered kiss, hands mapping the broad sloping planes of his shoulders and back with trembling urgency.

Charles responds in kind, all velvet heat and insistent possession as his arms sweep you impossibly closer, fingers tangling in the loose curtain of your hair. You allow yourself to succumb fully to the dizzying euphoria of his passion and the all-encompassing ambition now flowering in your breast unfurled, crashing over you in intoxicating waves.

This is no mere contract, no insignificant changing of pitlane scenery. This is the definitive moment where you have eclipsed every last shadow of self-doubt and exceeded even the lofty expectations bequeathed to you since girlhood.

You will become a legend.

Only when the need for air finally parts you does the fervent heat of the moment ebb enough for rational thought to pierce the moonlit haze of emotion. Your lips are swollen and tingling, senses heightened to every whisper and shift of muscle under Charles’ shirt as his chest expands in deep, measured breaths.

When you finally find the strength to lift your gaze and meet his hooded stare, he is the one rendered momentarily speechless by the intensity and elation blazing in your expression. Something he sees reflected back at him now from the woman nestled so securely in his arms.

“Oh, mon amour ...” Charles rasps at last, a sinfully indulgent smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He shakes his head as if beholding some ascending deity, utterly transfixed.

“This is only the beginning ...”

***

The camera flashes turn the plush Ferrari hospitality suite into a makeshift photo studio. You try not to blink as the bright lights sparkle off the deep red lipstick you’re wearing.

“Okay, bellissima, one more,” the photographer calls out. You tilt your head slightly and smile wide. Charles squeezes your hand. The shutter clicks.

“Perfetto! I think we got it,” the photographer says, lowering his camera with a grin. “Grazie mille, you two.”

“Thank you,” you reply in your lightly accented English. Charles plants a kiss on your cheek, leaving the faintest imprint of his lips in lightly tinted lip balm on your skin. The makeup artist rushes over to touch it up before the next part of the shoot.

This is your first joint promotional event as Ferrari’s new driver pairing for 2026. Well, sort of new — Charles is a proven superstar entering his seventh season with the team. You, on the other hand, are the fresh face and the source of international intrigue.

“Next up, we’re filming a little Q&A section,” the producer explains, adjusting his headset. “Just a fun, casual way for the fans to get to know you both better before the season starts.”

You and Charles take your seats, situating yourselves comfortably on the curved scarlet sofa. An array of cameras surrounds you on robotic arms, remotely controlled to capture every angle.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the producer calls out from behind the lights. An energetic young woman with a microphone appears on camera, greeting you both enthusiastically.

“Bonjour Charles, Salaam Y/N! So great to have Ferrari’s exciting new line-up with us today. Let’s get to know you guys a little better — there are notecards with rapid-fire questions right here and you just banter away, okay?”

Charles leans forward, grabbing a stack of notecards from the table beside him. “Here’s an easy one to start — who is the most famous person in your contacts?”

“Mine is Seb, of course! Sebastian Vettel. Used to be my teammate, now he’s basically a world-famous hermit.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Oh come on, you can do better than that.”

“Your turn then, Your Highness,” Charles counters with a teasing lilt. “Who’s the biggest celebrity in that royal contacts list of yours?”

You tap a manicured fingernail against your plump lips, pretending to ponder the question. In truth, you know exactly who it is, and Charles is going to be stunned. A sly grin tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Does my father count?”

Charles barks out a laugh. “I don’t think so, Y/N. Pick someone a bit more … interesting.”

“Oh? You want interesting?” You tease, unable to resist dragging this out. “How about … Taylor Swift?”

Whatever Charles was expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. His eyes go comically wide, jaw dropping slightly. “You … Taylor Swift? As in, the international popstar?”

“The one and only,” you confirm with a serene nod.

“How in the world do you have Taylor Swift’s phone number?” He sputters.

You shrug, admiring the gemstone-encrusted rings glittering on your fingers. “It was my 18th birthday party. Baba knew how much I loved her music, so he got her to perform.”

“He got … your father got Taylor Swift … to perform at your birthday?” Charles is still gaping at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Well yes, what else would you expect?” You laugh at his dumbfounded expression. “It wasn’t that big a deal, habibi.”

Charles opens his mouth, then closes it, seemingly at a loss for words. You lean over the side of the couch, draping one hand over the armrest as you gaze up at him with false innocence.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

“I …” he finally manages. “Y/N, you never cease to amaze me.”

“Is that so?” You bat your eyelashes coyly. “Good thing you’re stuck with me then.”

Charles shakes his head in disbelief, but his expression melts into a fond one, dimples showing as he grins down at you.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, mon amour.”

You sit up slightly at the pet name, spoken so tenderly. That warm, bubbly feeling fills your chest like always when Charles looks at you like that — like you’re the most precious thing in the world to him.

“Alright, alright,” you murmur, trying to ignore the blush you can feel heating your cheeks. “Ask another question before I get too distracted by that irresistible smile of yours.”

Charles chuckles darkly. “Oh, trust me. I’m very distracting.”

You giggle at his faux arrogance. “Very distracting indeed. Now come on, ask me something good.”

He glances down at the cards again. “Let’s see … what’s the most extravagant gift you’ve ever received?”

You don’t even have to think about that one. “My baby.”

There’s a pause, then- “Did you just refer to me as a gift?”

“Not you,” you laugh. “My gorgeous F2002.”

Recognition dawns on Charles’ face as he remembers your long tangents about the iconic race car. “Ah, of course. Your prized possession.”

“It was a present for my 15th birthday,” you explain, unable to keep the pride from your voice. “From Baba. I nearly fainted when I saw it.”

“I’ll bet,” Charles murmurs. “She’s a beauty, that’s for sure.”

“That she is,” you agree softly. Your eyes linger on Charles, watching the way the harsh factory lights play against the sculpted lines of his face, catching in his dark eyes. Beautiful, just like your car.

You tear your eyes away before you get too carried away, clearing your throat. “Next question?”

Charles blinks, seeming to shake himself from his own reverie before consulting the cards again. His brow furrows slightly as he reads the next one.

“Well this is … certainly a question.” He looks up at you with mild bewilderment. “What’s the most embarrassing thing your family has ever done?”

You grimace slightly at that. Your parents certainly haven’t been immune to embarrassing their only daughter over the years. After a moment’s hesitation, you launch into the story.

“Okay, so when I was sixteen, I had this dreadful crush on one of Baba’s racehorse jockeys …”

Charles listens attentively, dimples showing again as you regale the tale of your young lovesick self hopelessly pining after the older, objectively very attractive jockey. How your parents, in their infinite wisdom and total lack of subtlety, had gotten it into their heads that the best way to cheer you up over your unrequited crush was to invite said jockey over for a family dinner at the palace ...

“... and of course, in front of this painstakingly handsome man, my parents could not resist mercilessly teasing and embarrassing me the entire night!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, but you’re laughing too at the ridiculousness of the memory. “I thought I would simply perish from mortification right there at the table.”

“No, no, no,” Charles shakes his head, grinning widely. “Please, tell me more about how devilishly handsome this jockey was.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you snort, reaching out to shove his shoulder lightly. But you oblige him anyway. “Okay, fine, you want details? He was … oh, I don’t know, maybe 6 feet tall, tanned and muscular from all that riding, perfectly tousled dark hair-”

“Tousled dark hair, hmm?” Charles arches an eyebrow at you, smile turning sly. “Should I be jealous?”

“Oh hush, that was years ago,” you wave a hand dismissively. “Though I suppose if we want to talk about petty jealousies and crushes …”

When he seems confused, you smirk up at him mischievously.

“Word on the street is a certain Monegasque driver had quite the thing for Valentino Rossi back in the day.”

It’s Charles’ turn to snort at that, shaking his head ruefully. “You’re one to talk. Everyone knows how obsessed you were with Fernando Alonso for years.”

“I was a child!” You protest with dignity, trying not to laugh. “It was an innocent celebrity crush and nothing more.”

“Uh huh, sure,” he teases. “Which is why you still have that massive lifesize poster of him in your bedroom at the palace-”

“How do you know about that?” You halt him, utterly mortified all over again. Your face flames scarlet as Charles dissolves into helpless laughter beside you.

“I’m only joking, ma belle,” he finally gasps out. “I’ve never seen this supposed poster.” Charles reaches out, looping an arm around your waist to pull you snug against his side. You go easily, butting your forehead lightly against his shoulder with a huff.

“You’re the worst, you know that?”

“And yet, you keep me around,” he murmurs warmly. His fingers trace idle patterns against your hip, making you shiver. “Something about me must be tolerable.”

You tilt your head back to meet his intense gaze, your lips curving despite yourself.

“I suppose you’ll do,” you murmur. Then you lean up on your tiptoes to press your mouth against his.

Charles melts into the soft, lingering kiss, the arm around your waist tightening to bring you even closer against him. This close, you can feel the lean muscle and warmth of his body, your own tingling with awareness. One of his hands slips into your hair, cradling the back of your head and angling your lips for better access.

A quiet noise of pleasure escapes your throat as the kiss deepens, growing more heated. You part your lips eagerly to grant his questing tongue entrance, tasting the hint of coffee and addictive scent that always makes your head spin dizzily. His other hand smoothes down your side, over the dip of your waist and the curve of your hip, burning through the thin fabric of your team polo-

“Ahem … aaaand cut! Fantastic you two, that’s a wrap on this portion,” the director says, his amused tone breaking the trance. “Why don’t we take a short break before setting up for next segment?”

Cheeks flushed, you and Charles reluctantly pull apart, remembering there’s a whole bustle of crew surrounding you at the moment. Tucking a glossy lock of hair behind your ear, you lean in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear.

“Raincheck on that kiss, habibi? I have a few more surprises in store for you later.” You graze his earlobe with your teeth, delighting in the way his breath catches. “If you think we already know everything about each other … you haven’t seen anything yet.”

With a saucy wink, you extract yourself from his embrace and saunter off to refresh your makeup, leaving your dazed boyfriend gaping after your retreating form.

***

Two Years Later

You wake with a start to the sound of your alarm blaring at 4:38 am. Groaning, you reach over to silence it, blinking blearily in the dark. It’s the start of another day of fasting for Ramadan — the first your now husband will be participating in to support you.

A soft snore comes from beside you and you can’t help but smile fondly. There he is, heartthrob of Formula 1 fans everywhere, drool trailing down his chin onto the 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton pillowcase. How attractive.

“Charles,” you whisper, gently shaking his shoulder. “Time to wake up for suhoor.”

He merely grunts and rolls over, pulling the covers up over his head. You sigh in exasperation. For an elite professional athlete, he can be stubborn as a mule when it comes to early mornings.

Giving up for now, you slip out of bed and pad across the plush carpet of your sprawling bedroom quarters in the palace. You flick on the ornate brass lamps, bathing the room in a warm glow that glints off the gold accents everywhere.

A jaw-cracking yawn escapes you as you make your way over to the bathroom, hoping a splash of cool water on your face will help wake you. Your bare feet slap against the intricate tile mosaics as you go.

“What time is it?” A sleepy voice calls out behind you.

“Early,” you call back. “We have forty minutes before the fast begins.”

You emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later, slightly more alert, to find Charles blinking confusedly around the room, mussed hair sticking up every which way. He looks utterly lost without his morning coffee.

“Come along, habibi,” you say, grabbing his hand and tugging him out of bed with a grunt. “Let’s go see what the kitchen staff has prepared.”

Charles just nods obediently, Ferrari red pajama pants hanging low on his hips in a way that makes your cheeks flush. Even barely conscious, he’s unfairly good-looking.

The two of you make your way down the torch-lit hallways of the palace toward the private dining room reserved for the royal family members. You can’t resist threading your fingers through his and giving his hand a squeeze.

“I’m proud of you for doing this,” you murmur. “It means everything to me.”

Charles halts, tugging you into his arms. His embrace is warm and comforting and familiar. You let your eyes drift shut as he brushes his lips across your forehead.

“Of course,” he rumbles in that delicious accent of his. “Anything for you, mon cœur.”

A throat clears behind you and you jump apart, heat flooding your cheeks. Whirling around, you spot your father regarding you sternly, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

“Good mor-er, night? Apologies, Charles,” he says gruffly. “I’m still getting used to this schedule.”

Charles gives a awkward little bow. “No need to apologize, Your Highness.”

You roll your eyes fondly at the two most important men in your life. For cultures on opposite sides of the world, sometimes they’re more alike than either would admit.

“Have you two eaten yet?” Your father continues. “The cooks have prepared a feast as usual.”

Shaking your head, you tug Charles’s hand to follow as you make your way into the lavish dining room. It’s deserted at this hour save for the kitchen staff milling about, setting out enormous platters of food.

Arabian coffee in delicate gemmed cups. Chickpea stew and crisp flatbreads fresh from the tandoor oven. Heaping mounds of creamy balaleet vermicelli sweetened with rosewater and cardamom. Succulent medjool dates and purees of every fruit imaginable to kick off the fast as healthfully as possible. It all smells utterly divine and makes your mouth water.

You glance sidelong at Charles to see him staring around with an utterly gobsmacked look. His adorably bewildered expression makes you stifle a giggle — you always forget this is the first time he’s experiencing the elaborate palace rituals.

“Dig in,” your father says gruffly, already loading up his plate.

And dig in you do, shoveling food into your mouths as quickly as your etiquette training will allow. All too soon, the muezzin’s call to prayer rings out over the grounds, signaling the official start of the day’s fasting.

You sit back with a contented sigh, hands resting atop your pleasantly full belly. Beside you, Charles looks pleasantly stuffed as well in that gorgeous way where his shirt rides up just a hint. The old you might’ve flushed scarlet and averted your eyes like a proper modest lady. This emboldened you lets your gaze linger ...

“Enjoying the sights?” Your father’s wry voice cuts through your daze.

You startle, snapping your attention back to see his eyes twinkling with amusement. Of course the man misses nothing when it comes to his only daughter. The tips of your ears burn.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he continues, rising to his feet. “I have matters of state to attend to as usual despite the hour. Do try to behave, you two.”

You open your mouth to protest the teasing, indignant, but he silences you with a look and a raised brow. With great restraint, you merely nod instead. Soon as the door swings shut behind him, you blow out an exasperated breath, rolling your eyes heavenward.

“I love him dearly,” you start. “But sometimes-”

Whatever sarcastic rejoinder you were going to make dies on your lips when you catch sight of Charles again. He’s leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out before him, looking utterly at ease amid the heart of Arabian luxury. A tiny, fond smile plays about his lips.

“What?” You ask self-consciously.

“Nothing,” he says at once, shaking his head. “I just … you look beautiful here. Content. Like you were born to it.”

It’s your turn to blink in surprise at the unexpected compliment. Of course you were raised amid affluence and trained in regal bearing from birth. And yet ...

“Flatterer,” you say at last, trying to brush off the warm curl of pleasure blooming in your chest.

Charles sits up straight, expression turning earnest in that intense way of his that never fails to rob you of breath.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “You’re so at home here. The way your face lights up at all the little traditions, how you banter with your father like you rule the place …” His eyes roam over you adoringly. “You’re magnificent.”

Your cheeks heat furiously, but you can’t look away, caught in his smoldering gaze. How is it possible for this man to make you feel so flustered and treasured after all this time? He reaches across to take your hand, calloused fingers stroking over your knuckles.

“Thank you,” you whisper at last. “For doing this with me. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“Of course,” Charles echoes his earlier sentiment simply.

There’s a brief, electrically charged moment where you’re both just gazing at each other like nobody else exists. And then … a low rumbling growl shatters the stillness. You blink as Charles flushes bright red.

“I, ah, seem to be hungry again already with the early schedule,” he admits sheepishly.

You throw back your head with a peal of laughter, loud and unbridled and utterly unconcerned with propriety for once. Leave it to your man to break the tension in the most delightfully awkward way. “Easy there, habibi. You’ll need to save room for iftar later tonight.”

Realizing you’ve caught him looking undignified, Charles has the good grace to look a bit sheepish. “You’re right, mon ange. Got a bit carried away with my last chance to eat for awhile.” He licks his lips slowly, watching you with heated eyes. “I’ll be counting the seconds until I can taste you agai-”

“Charles, not during fasting hours!” You cut him off with a scandalized giggle, heat flooding your cheeks at his shameless innuendo. Even after all this time, he can still fluster you with a single heated look.

He just throws back his head with a full-throated laugh, utterly unrepentant.

You shake your head at his antics, trying in vain to suppress your grin. “Incorrigible,” you mutter fondly.

Leaning back in your chair, you settle in to watch him contently. Heat simmers low in your belly, anticipating the moment you can finally break your fast tonight and enjoy some … dessert.

The little eight-year-old girl attending her first race could never have imagined that this would be her life one day. Alhamdulillah for the blessings that Allah saw to bestow upon you. With your husband by your side and the ink drying on a long-term contract with Ferrari, you have everything you could have asked for.

[nebuladreamerrr]

Love in words| Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

Summary: Kylian wins your heart with a charming routine of leaving little love notes in French. Unbeknownst to him, you’ve been secretly learning French just to understand his sweet messages

Warnings: English is not my first language. I don't speak Dutch or French, so if there's any mistake, I would appreciate it if you let me know :)))

You couldn't help but smile when you noticed the little envelope next to the breakfast on the counter, certain that your boyfriend had prepared it before leaving for training. It was these small gestures that made you fall more deeply in love with him each day.

The past few months hadn't been easy. In fact, your relationship hadn't followed a "normal" trajectory at all. Just a year ago, you had left your beloved Netherlands to advance your modeling career. Many saw it as a leap into the unknown, predicting you would return with less than you left with. Fortunately, you proved them wrong. It was at a serene evening event under the moonlight, hosted by a brand to showcase their new perfume, where you first met your current partner.

From the moment you met him, you felt a connection. However, you rarely recount your first conversation because it embarrasses you, despite it being one of Kylian's favorite stories. To Kylian's surprise, you didn't recognize who he was, leading him to initially disbelieve you and playfully ask what profession you thought suited him. Without hesitation, you said "architect," which amused him greatly.

Luckily, it turned into a humorous anecdote, and the following week, the handsome Frenchman seized the opportunity to take you on a date where you could savor authentic French cuisine. It was during this date that your mother called you, causing you embarrassment as you excused yourself briefly to the bathroom to speak with her. Uncertain of how to ensure you didn't return with a negative impression of him, Kylian took a lipstick from your bag and wrote on a napkin, "Meeting you was a nice accident." This gesture deeply touched your heart, and since then, you've cherished that napkin, hoping to one day share it with your future children as a cherished memory.

When your relationship began, you faced a series of challenges. First, Kylian got injured. Although it wasn’t a severe injury, he was quite moody since his whole life revolved around football. Luckily, your arrival in his life cheered him up, and he used that recovery time to get to know you better. However, the main issue in your relationship was the language barrier. After moving to France, your French was not very good, and after some bad experiences with a few French people who got offended when you mispronounced words, you decided to communicate mostly in English. Additionally, Kylian didn’t know any Dutch, so your conversations often felt monotonous or a bit awkward, requiring a translator to express your different points of view.

Kylian was quite concerned when you told him about the "trauma" you developed due to those few rude individuals who belittled your efforts and preferred to ridicule you rather than help you improve. To encourage you, Kylian came up with a plan involving leaving little notes in French to motivate you to learn the language. Of course, he understood that you could easily use your phone to translate them, so the first letter he gave you was on your birthday, hoping you’d understand how much he wanted it to come from you and not from a simple translation app. Therefore, on your birthday, he left this letter along with a bouquet of blue carnations:

“Bonjour à l'amour de ma vie,

J'espère que tu as très bien dormi aujourd'hui comme la princesse que tu es. Tu n'as aucune idée de combien je suis fier d'être ton petit ami et d'avoir comme petite amie une personne si gentille et noble, quelqu'un qui se soucie des autres et qui n'a pas peur de tout risquer pour accomplir de grandes choses.

(Y/N), en seulement vingt-quatre ans, tu as accompli tant de choses, et j'espère que tu es fière de chaque réussite car je ne peux m'empêcher de sourire comme un idiot amoureux quand j'entends ton nom mentionné dans une émission de télévision ou que je vois que tu as posté une nouvelle photo sur ton profil.

Je sais que tu vas me tuer pour avoir tout écrit en français, mais j'espère qu'un jour tu liras et comprendras tout. Je ne veux pas dire que j'espère que tu seras ma femme et la mère de mes enfants parce que je suis sûr que cela arrivera; nous sommes destinés à être ensemble.

Merci de me supporter, et s'il te plaît continue de cuisiner; je ne sais pas ce que je ferais sans ta nourriture. Je t'aime tellement, mon amour, profite de ta journée.

P.S. Please, princess, don’t translate anything, and don’t ask anyone to translate it for you. I love you, my queen."

("Good morning to the love of my life.

I hope you slept very well today like the princess you are. You have no idea how proud I am to be your boyfriend and to have such a gentle, noble person as my girlfriend, someone who cares about others and isn’t afraid to risk everything to achieve great things.

(Y/N), in just twenty-four years, you have accomplished so much, and I hope you are proud of every achievement because I can’t help but smile like a love-struck fool when I hear your name mentioned on a TV show or see that you’ve posted a new picture on your profile.

I know you’re going to kill me for writing this all in French, but I hope that one day you’ll read and understand everything. I don’t want to say I hope you’ll be my wife and the mother of my children because I’m sure it will happen; we’re destined to be together.

Thank you for putting up with me, and please keep cooking; I don’t know what I’d do without your food. I love you so much, my love, enjoy your day.

P.S. Please, princess, don’t translate anything, and don’t ask anyone to translate it for you. I love you, my queen.")

When you read the letter, you couldn't help but feel a bit shocked because you didn't expect to receive a handwritten letter from Kylian, especially not one written in French. Although it frustrated you that you couldn't understand what was written, you were sure it was all kind words. From that moment on, you had a new goal: to decipher everything the letter said.

Your motivation grew with the increase in notes that Kylian left everywhere: in your car, your apartment, and even in your purse. His messages varied—some shorter, some longer—but they all had one common factor: they were all written in French.

“Mon cœur, les gars me taquinent parce que je veux aller voir Vice Versa 2 avec toi. Est-ce bizarre ? » "Sweetheart, the guys are bullying me because I want to see Inside Out 2 with you. Is that weird?"

« Hey, je n'aime pas que tu prêtes plus d'attention à mon frère qu'à moi. Rappelle-toi, j'ai une Coupe du Monde, et lui non. » "Hey, I don’t like that you pay more attention to my brother than to me. Remember, I have a World Cup, and he doesn’t."

« Pendant l'entraînement, je n'ai pas pu m'empêcher de penser à toi et à comment nos enfants vont me taquiner parce que je ne parle pas néerlandais. Pourquoi tout le monde se moque de moi ? » "During training, I couldn’t stop thinking about you and how our kids will bully me because I don’t speak Dutch. Why does everyone make fun of me?"

All of this motivated you to sign up for classes with a private tutor to learn the language. You often surprised her by asking about the meaning of specific words to slowly decipher the meaning of your boyfriend’s letters. When you finally succeeded, you couldn’t feel more satisfied with yourself. So, you decided to write Kylian a letter in French and slip it into his training bag, hoping to surprise him. You also had a little revenge planned.

"My love, I hope training went well, and you had a great time with the guys.

Remember to behave, and there will be a delicious meal for lunch.

Overigens, ik denk dat het tijd is dat jij ook mijn taal leert, dus ik hoop dat je veel plezier hebt. Onthoud, als je opgeeft, zal mijn vader een slechte indruk van je hebben.

Ik hou van je, mijn kleine schildpad.

(By the way, I think it’s time for you to learn my language too, so I hope you have a lot of fun. Remember, if you give up, my father will have a bad impression of you.

I love you, my little turtle.)

P.S. Don’t use the translator either."

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Ginger Rogers (Swing Time, Top Hat)—Look I’ll level with you, I’ve never seen her in a musical and I know that she’s an amazing dancer and she’ll be even hotter when I finally watch Top Hat but I’m not submitting her as a dancer I’m submitting her as an ACTRESS. Her comic timing is impeccable!!!!! She’s full to bursting with life and in every role she seems to be having FUN, you can practically feel the twinkle in her eye. With her natural warmth it’s like she’s letting you in on the joke, y’all get to have this fun together! Making me laugh is hot!!! [If you'd like to see Ginger dance, videos below the cut]

Dorothy Lamour (The Jungle Princess, Road to… movies)—Ok, to be honest, I get if no one wants to vote for her--she's kind of like my ~problematic fave~ because she started in the Road (Singapore, Bali, Hong Kong, etc) movies with Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, which are full of all sorts of exoticism tropes and usually have her playing very side-eye type roles..island princesses and things...yeah. also she banged J. Edgar Hoover. not very hot. but your honor i still think she's pretty despite all that she's pretty please look at her and tell me she's prettyyy

This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Dorothy Lamour propaganda:

She started in jungle and South Seas movies and became famous in the Road series. She learned quickly to improvise when facing Bob and Bing. Road to Bali almost has her character marrying both of theirs, since she's island royalty and nobody had a problem with it - a nearly poly relationship, an epiphany for a viewer who didn't even know that that could happen! She was a popular pinup girl during World War 2, and was the first singer for the popular standard "It Could Happen to You". She sang often in her movies and has a lovely voice!

Ginger Rogers propaganda:

She needs no introduction! An undeniable powerhouse on the dancefloor, and no less talented an actress. I once watched a compilation of cinema's greatest dance scenes and one of her and Fred Astaire's dances was featured, and one of the talking heads said he pitied her for 'having to keep up with him' - or something to that effect. Bullshit, I cry. Ginger Rogers was his absolute equal, and underplaying her incredible skill is downright criminal. I want the 'Cheek to Cheek' sequence from Top Hat to be permanently burned into my memory.

"Backwards in high heels", as the saying goes (though the pedant in me must point out that she in fact spent her fair share of time leading or dancing side-by-side). One of the earliest twinkle-toed ladies of the silver screen, and in terms of acting/persona, her balance of wide-eyed cuteness and movie-star glamour has never quite been replicated.

we all know her beloved string of musicals with fred but ginger also has an extensive and varied non-fred filmography that she's great in! a few ginger moments that are important 2 me personally ginger singing “we’re in the money” in gold diggers of 1933, complete with a verse in pig latin bc this whole movie is kinda mocking the concept of anyone actually being in the money in 1933; ginger and una merkel singing a verse of “shuffle off to buffalo” in 42nd street, providing some statler & waldorf-esque commentary on newlyweds from the upper berth of a railway car (interesting that belly was apparently a risque word in 1933 - maybe its bc the lyric is innuendo-ing about out of wedlock pregnancies - and that panties was a term for men’s underthings!); a favorite fred & ginger number

Ginger Rogers could do everything! She could sing, dance and act. She was hilarious in comedies, moving in dramatic roles (she won an Oscar for Kitty Foyle in 1940) and absolutely gorgeous!

Listen, no shade to Fred Astaire at all, but she both kept up with him step for step and then later went on to WIN AN OSCAR FOR ACTING. (which he did not.) truly a double threat!!!

One of the best dancers in Hollywood! Her work with Fred Astaire is just incredible.

ONE LINE: "Everything Fred did, Ginger did backwards and in heels" AND THEYRE RIGHT! Rogers was a total dance badass, and a lot of movie buffs know the story, but the Never Gonna Dance number from Swing Time took almost 50 takes, and allegedly by the end of filming it her white shoes had been stained pink because her feet were bleeding. As a note, she looks crazy gorgeous in this number. Watching these two dance is insane. They match up to each other in a way my mom describes as "divine" and she's right. DANCE NUMBERS!

Let's Call The Whole Thing Off (Shall We Dance, 1937, dancing starts at 3:14, they're in ROLLERSKATES)

(Ginger Rogers is the hottest woman ever to live in this number. seeing this as a teenager altered my brain chemistry)

(also watch her feet and how she moves opposite Astaire in this one. We all know our boy Freddie had that precision demon but jesus christ Miss Rogers, let a girl live!)

Pick Yourself Up, Swing Time 1936 (Everyone's seen this one but by god you are going to see it AGAIN!)

Shall We Dance, 1937 (duet begins at 2:34)

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, Roberta 1935 (There's just something about Ginger Rogers in a slick black dress man)

The Continental, The Gay Divorcee 1934 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cjv6nmF7wdk God she's MAGIC in this one.

Gay Divorcee's Ending Montage 1934The infamous table and chairs spin happens at about 0:49. Pay CLOSE attention to her in this bc it looks like witchcraft and I feel lightheaded whenever I watch this movie bc shes THAT awesome.

She is a miracle to watch. Sorry for the sheer amount of clips. My entire family is like madly in love with Ginger Rogers.

[the20thangel]

The Dragon and The Raven

Chapter 5: The Dragon Princess and Her Raven Lord.

Chapter Summary: Jacaerys did not believe that the Lord of House Blackwood was the best for his beloved sister. It is too bad that Aemma has fallen deeply for the Lord of Raventree Hall, and nothing will stop her from getting her way.

Please let me know your thoughts :)

Keep track of the story: masterlist

Word count: 3215

Jacaerys looked at the lord, to whom his sister insisted on being betrothed. Lord Blackwood looked like he had just come out of a duel. Sweat dripped down his face, his hair was messy, and his clothes were wrinkled and muddy. Benjicot knew that even though he had Prince Daemon’s blessing, getting Prince Jacaerys' approval was just as important. 

Benjicot bowed and addressed the prince, “Prince Jacaerys, let me be the one to welcome you to the Riverlands and Harrenhall.” 

As Lord Blackwood made his statement, all the men from House Blackwood followed their lord in bowing, leading the North and the Vale men to bow as well. Grinding his teeth, Jace couldn’t help but admit that the lord was respectful and was a natural leader. Not wanting to seem rude but also not wanting to give the impression of approval, Jace merely nodded his head. When this happened, Princess Aemma was frowning; she did not need a Daemon 2.0 to try to intimate her betrothed. Aemma turned to Baela, who winked while shaking her head. Ugh, Men, they both thought.  Thankfully, before another awkward moment passed, Daemon cleared his throat. 

“Jace, Baela, come, first unpack your things at the tents before we start making any…foolish decisions.” Commanded Daemon as Jace frowned at his stepfather, but he knew better than to argue with the Rouge Prince and followed him to the tents where they would be staying. 

As people began to leave, Aemma walked to Benji, smiling at him. She took his arm and kissed his cheek. Benji returned the smile as he led them towards his tent. 

“Your brother doesn’t seem to like me…” stated Benji, as they entered his tent, leading the princess towards the bed. 

“Jacaerys is a dragon, and dragons are very overprotective with what they love, but he will come around, I'm sure of it,” stated Aemma as she unraveled her braids. 

Benji hummed as he decided to sit next to her and help the princess undo her braids. Aemma couldn't help but close her eyes. His fingers were like magic, easing the tension she had. Before she could stop herself, a slight moan slipped from her lips as she whispered.

“ You truly have a talent with your fingers…” Aemma stiffened, as did Benji once those words were spoken. The phrases had two meanings, and Aemma didn’t want him or anybody who might have heard them to misinterpret them. 

Benji huffed with laughter as he finished undoing her braids and kissing the top of her head. Which in turn made Aemma huff and turned to glare at him. 

“It is not funny, Ben!” she exclaimed as she lightly slapped his chest. 

Benji laughed even louder as he pulled the princess to his chest and brought them down on his bed. 

“Oh, I thought it was hilarious, my dear Aemma.” 

Aemma leaned on his chest, staring at his eyes as she playfully glared at him. Benji looked down and could not help but feel warm inside. He never thought his life would be played out like this, being betrothed and falling desperately fast in love with a dragonriding princess. Aemma sighed and placed her head on his chest, drawing small circles on his chest, the two peacefully enjoying their silent company. Soon, all the events that had happened the last few days finally caught up with them as they lulled themselves to sleep with the sound of breathing. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once Jace set himself up with his tent, he quickly checked on Baela, who told him she wanted to take a quick bath because she reeked of a dragon. Then he went to his sister’s tent only to find it empty. Before he continued his way to look for her, he was summoned by Daemon. Walking into the tent, Jace saw his stepfather sitting behind a desk, reading some letters with a cup of wine. Daemon looked at the restless boy, giving him an unimpressed brow as he waited for Jace to sit. Once Jacaerys noted that his father would not speak until he took a seat before him, he sighed, sat on the chair, and tried to raise a brow back. 

Daemon chuckled, “Now, son, what brings you to Harrenhall and away from your beloved mother’s side? Hmm.” 

Jace blistered, “I came here to convince my sister out of her foolish decision to get engaged.” 

Daemon shook his head; his little dragons were an overprotective bunch, each taking the creed of his father Baleon and protecting each other fiercely, sometimes a little too much. Which was more than he could say his brother Viserys ever did for him. Daemon took a swing of the cup before answering his stepson. 

 “Our Aemma can be many things, but she has never been the one to make foolish decisions. The boy is a fierce fighter, and his armies will greatly benefit your mother’s fight for the iron throne,” explained Daemon, watching Jace's face turn sour with each word. 

Jace knew this path would be long, especially since his stepfather seemed to approve of the Lord of Raventree Hall. It would be harder to separate Aemma from him because whatever Aemma wanted, Daemon provided. 

Jace sighed. As he stood, he faced his father. “I will see for myself, but if I don’t like him, my mother has permitted me to break the betrothal if I am not impressed.” Jace bowed before turning to leave, only pausing once he heard Daemon call out. 

“Do what you must, but remember never at the expense of potentially harming your sister.” 

Jace nodded as he continued walking, determined to find his sister even more. Daemon sighed as he rubbed his face. His children would be his death. 

Jace continued walking, looking through the sea of gray, red, and black, trying to find a princess and lord but having no luck. While wandering, he found Cregan Stark as he was speaking to a woman wearing House Blackwood colors. When both noticed his presence, they paused and gave a quick bow. Jacaerys laughed and hugged Cregan, who was like a brother to him. 

“Cregan, it's good to see you again. How was your journey south?” Jace asked as he grinned at the Wolf of Winterfell. 

“Long and humid Jace. I’m sorry, lady Aly, but the Riverlands are much too humid for my taste,” stated Cregan as he stared at Aly Blackwood, who laughed. 

“No harm done, Lord Stark. I sometimes find the Riverlands too much. Good day, Prince Jacaerys. I’m Alysanne Blackwood, but you may call me Aly.” Aly introduced herself to the dragon prince. 

Who in turn smiled, wondering how close she was to Benjcot Blackwood. 

“Yes, it is pretty humid for my taste as well; I prefer Dragonstone’s winds to this,” Jace answered before turning to Aly. “Well Met, Lady Aly Blackwood, pray tell me who you might be to the Lord of House Blackwood?” questioned Jace. 

“I am his lady aunt, my prince,” explained Aly, confused about where the conversation would go. 

Jace nodded and looked around again, searching for a sign of his sister, but again, to no avail. Cregan and Aly turned to each other, guessing who he was looking for. Jace noticed their questioning stare. 

“Have you both seen either the Lord of Raventree Hall or the Crown Princess?” questioned Jace, staring at the two. 

Cregan and Aly shared a secret look, both shaking their heads no, 

“No, but let me look for them, my prince; I will bring them to you once I have found them,” replied Aly as she turned and walked away from the prince. 

Alyssanne walked towards the main Blackwood tent, chuckling at the sight before her: her nephew and the princess warmly embraced. As much as she hated to wake them, she knew Prince Jacaerys would blow a fuse at the current sight. Aly walked to them and quietly shook the princess awake. 

“My princess, you must wake up quickly….please, princess,” Aly loudly whispered, feeling relieved once the princess opened her violet eyes. 

Aemma sharply gasped, seeing Aly in her face, and accidentally dug her elbow into Benji’s stomach, causing the young lord to groan and wake from his slumber, then also sitting up, noticing his aunt. 

Aly shook her head; these two would be the death of her. “Princess, you need to go to your tent. Your brother is looking for you both and will not be pleased seeing what I saw. Go on now quickly from the back.” 

Aemma nodded as she stood, quickly pecking Benji in the space between his cheek and lips, and walked out. Benji sighed, fully waking up as his aunt glared at him. 

“I would rather not have my nephew turn into dragon food, Ben; you must impress Prince Jacaerys as much as you did with her father.” Explained Aly as she asked a maid for a bath to be ready. Alysanne walked towards the entrance before turning to her nephew. “Take a quick bath and meet us outside, please.’” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aemma quickly walked toward her tent, making sure no one noticed her, when Baela walked out of her tent, giving her a mischievous grin.

“Well, well, dearest sister, where are you coming from in a hurry? Hmm, from a certain lord who happens to wear a house color similar to ours?” taunted Baela. 

Aemma playfully rolled her eyes, pushing her away and walking to a steaming bath awaiting her. Aemma turned to her sister in thanks as she began to undress and walk in the tub, sighing as she felt the boiling water ease her sore muscles.  Baela sat behind her and began to wash her hair. 

“Jace was looking for you..” started Baela as she reached for the perfumes. 

“Yes, so I have been told,” whispered Aemma as she began to wash her body. 

“You need to be more careful, sister. Our father may have given his blessing, but Jace has special permission from your mother to reject the union if he doesn’t like Lord Blackwood. He already has a closed mindset, thinking that you should marry Lord Stark instead.” carefully explained Baela as she finished washing Aemma’s hair and walked to the main room to take out a beautiful, lightweight red dress with black accents. 

Once Aemma came out, she took the dress from Baela and began to dress herself, letting her sister tighten the corset laces. Baela paused, analyzing her sister. Luke’s death took a toll on everyone but more on Aemma and Rhaenyra; both women had dark circles under their eyes. But now, Aemma looked glowing, her skin and hair shining, bringing out the true Valyrian beauty bards loved to sing about. 

“So tell me of Lord Blackwood, what did this lord do that many others couldn’t?” asked Baela, noticing Aemma’s blush. 

As Aemma spun her tale from the first meeting at his hall to Sliverwing, allowing him to fly on her and the duel, Baela began to see that her sister was falling for the young lord. 

“You are falling in love with him…” stated Baela as she went in front of Aemma. 

Aemma sighed wistfully, “Earlier this week, I would have denied it, but now, I truly believe I have fallen, and he is with me.”  

Baela was glad that, as much as this union would be best for their family, having Aemma find love in it was the best outcome. Baela embraced her sister. 

“I’m glad… Jace will try to find faults, but I can tell there are none. I will support you in enlightening him.” Aemma grinned but noticed Baela wanting to say more. 

“Have you told him about you and Aegon?” 

Aemma inhaled sharply at the words, walking away from Baela.

“There is nothing to tell; it was a stupid promise two naive children made, nothing more; Benji has nothing to worry about.” 

Baela sighed; she knew bringing up Aegon would upset Aemma, but she also knew how far the greens would risk believing in their delusions. 

“ I still think you should tell him. You know how cruel Aegon is, and he will probably try to cause a stir once he finds out about your relationship,” explained Baela, taking hold of Aemma’s hand. 

Aemma sighed; she knew what Baela had said was true, but she did not want to worry Benji. Young Aemma didn’t know about the vipers of the court or what kind of monster her uncle would have become. She couldn’t love someone who enjoyed tormenting servants and her poor aunt Heleana. Furthermore, she definitely couldn’t love someone who celebrated her brother’s death. The Aegon that Aemma made a promise to was an illusion, an idea, and not reality. Benjicot was ten times the man that Aegon could only hope to be, and truth be told, Aegon never had her whole body sing like when she was with Benji. 

“I’ll think about a way to explain it to him; for now, I need to focus on Jace accepting Benji and making sure our betrothal continues.” Aemma decided as she and Baela walked to the feast hall. 

Everyone stood when they noticed the two princesses walking in, Baela sitting between her father and Jacaerys. Jacaerys had Cregan next to him, and a spot opened next to Cregan. Aemma noticed this and rolled her eyes at her brother’s blatant plan for her to sit next to the Stark. Noticing Benji farther down with his aunt, Aemma grinned and walked towards them. Jace, in confusion, watched as his sister whispered something to Alysanne who then stood and walked towards Cregan and took the seat next to the winter wolf. Aemma turned, smirking at her brother, and sat next to Benjicot, keeping eye contact as she kissed the Blackwood lord's cheek. Jace huffed in annoyance, much to the amusement of everyone else.

 As the feast continued and more wine was consumed, people joked around and made numerous toasts. The hall quieted once a brave and drunk Blackwood knight stood, swaying a little as he raised his cup. 

“A toast to the Sea Dragon Princess, The realm’s pearl, Crown Princess Aemma, for nearly beating our lord and showing us the true power of the dragon. Our House will thrive under you and our lord’s rule!”

All the men started cheering, whistling, and cracking jokes as the princess blushed at the words spoken to her. Benji smirked and whispered something into her ear that had caused the princess's blush to darken. Jace sniffed at the sight and was surprised once he saw Cregan stand up, raising his cup. 

Cregan grinned at the couple making the toast, “The greens will have a hard time with the likes of Princess Aemma and Lord Blackwood on our side. A toast to the Dragon Princess and her Raven lord; may they strike fear into our enemies' hearts!” 

Everyone cheered at the words of the Winter Wolf as Jace stared at his friend in shock. As the feast ended, everyone went on their way. Jace, noticing his sister leaving with the young lord, followed them, asking Cregan to accompany him. Aemma led her betrothed to where the dragons were resting, wanting to spend time with Sliverwing. As Jace watched, he was surprised to see how welcoming the she-dragon was to the lord. 

Cregan looked at Jace and sighed, “Jace, I think you should give it a rest; Benjicot is a good lad, and he will make a fine husband to your sister.” 

Jace glared, “So would you, Cregan; my sister should have at least considered you before making her rash decision. 

A joyous laugh broke their conversation as both turned to see Aemma laughing and trying to move Sliverwings' snout from Benjicot’s chest, who was laughing on the ground and being knocked down. 

“I love Aemma but only as a sister. Besides, Benjicot has expressed how much he will give up for her. Your sister runs too hot for my taste, and I don’t enjoy my feet leaving off the ground. While I run too cold for your sister, she loves to soar far too much to be stuck on the cold floors of the north. Benjicot fits with your sister; he doesn’t get burned from her heat but welcomes it; he took flight like his ravens. There is no better man for her than him.” explained Cregan, hoping Jace saw what he saw. 

Jace, staring at his sister, knew Cregan was right, but still, “We could have been brothers had you married my sister.” 

Cregan shook his head, chuckling,” We are brothers. We made the blood pack, and nothing can change that, but forcing marriage on your sister would not bring us closer. Give your sister your blessing and let her marry her lord.” Cregan clapped his hand on Jace’s shoulder as he returned to his tent. 

Jace sighed; he knew everything everyone had said was true; as Baela made her way to him, he kissed her hand and walked towards his sister. Aemma, noticing her brother, quickly helped Benjicot stand. 

“Brother, I hope you are not here to sour my mood,” questioned Aemma as she raised her eyebrow. 

Jace shook his head, “Not at all, dear sister, Lord Blackwood, I want to express my blessing to my sister's hand. I will send a raven to my mother, letting her know my decision, and expect her in a week for your wedding.”

Aemma was shocked, “a week? I’m not complaining, but isn’t it way too fast?” 

Jace explained what their mother said: because of the war, it was better to have a fast wedding just to be safe. Aemma nodded while taking Benji’s hand and leaning into his side. Jace stated that Baela and, hopefully, Lady Alysanne would help with the maiden and marriage cloaks. He also noted that the day would have three separate ceremonies: One in front of a weirwood tree in the ways of the north, one of the faith, and the last being a Valyrian one. Aemma scoffed at the faith ceremony but knew it had to be done. They could not risk the Greens declaring her marriage invalid. As the group separated, Aemma and Benjicot walked to the princess’s tent, stopping at the entrance. 

“As much as I wish for you to stay with me, I don’t want to risk the ire of my brother or father,” whispered Aemma as she stared into her betrothed eyes. 

Benji smiled, understanding; Jacaerys barely gave his blessing, so it was best not to push it. 

Aemma reached up to give a sweet kiss before asking, “Are you truly fine in marrying me in a week?” 

Benji caressed his beloved's face as he returned the kiss before placing his forehead onto hers. “I would be willing to marry you tonight. You have taken my heart, and I don’t wish you to return it.” 

Aemma’s heart felt like it would explode because of how much love she felt. “And you have mine, my love, my raven.” She whispered, kissing him once more, letting him feel all her love through the kiss. She separated herself from him, wishing a goodnight as she entered her tent. 

“Sweet dreams, my dragon,” whispered Benji as he stood outside her tent for a while before walking to his tent, hoping to dream of a loving princess.

[rilakeila]

intro: we challenge you!

host club au! jjk x fem!reader x ohshc

gojo satoru is the head of jujutsu academy's elite high school host club with his friends: geto suguru, nanami kento, itadori sukuna, shoko ieiri, haibara yu, and of course, their princess manager. what happens when they go up against another elite host club on an exchange event with different schools? let's find out!

a/n: incredibly self-indulgent. i cant decide to do an entire series or collection of one-shots. however, even if i do a series, i'm always open to do an au within au !! lmk if y'all have any ideas and hope you enjoy this one! also it's def ouran vibes with how the scenes work out like nonsensical manners with the petal entrances and random objects appearing out of nowhere

(y/n) was already tired.

she knew the exchange event would triple her work as manager for her dear beloved buffoons and their work as hosts, but she foolishly accepted their offer to go anyway. between scheduling their events, accepting payments for various fan meetings, and then coordinating with both schools to confirm times and clothing - she was ready to retire. pension required and isolation from known society appreciated. at least distance away from the menaces called gojo satoru and itadori sukuna.

for once, to their credit, they weren't fighting each other. damages would be at minimal cost. good for her and jujutsu academy's reputation. although these two were never very concerned about the school's reputation.

and that's why they were about to duke it out with an intensely frivolous blonde-haired second year and what looked to be a very feral set of twins in their first year.

"they look so hot but so scary," murmurs surrounded the two groups.

(y/n) couldn't help but sigh, attention always seemed to follow them as they go. satoru naturally reeled in the girls, which would lead into the rest of the boys and shoko being noticed, ultimately turning it into a free fan-meeting for new potential customers. she wondered how she came to this predicament anyways.

"well, i'll be back. i just need to confirm some things with the head of the event," (y/n) flipped through her clipboard of papers, signing some things off.

"do you need me to come with you?" kento questioned, adjusting his uniform.

she shook her head, "no, i'll be okay. what i need you to do is watch over these buffoons."

both looked at the buffoons in question. haibara and shoko were already taking pictures in front of the flowers. these two that were least likely needed to be watched.

"this place looks so old," satoru complained a little too loud, earning a head shake of disapproval from nanami and (y/n).

"not too loud, satoru. you really should be more polite and humble, even if it looks garish," geto stretched his arms out before placing it behind his head.

"there's no places for shade," sukuna grumbled.

(y/n) pressed her lips together, pulled a parasol out and covered the pink-haired host, "okay, i'll be back. no funny business, kento is in charge."

"who put you in charge? do you have no respect for your president?" satoru seated his head on the top of (y/n)'s head, arms wrapped around her. she can practically see and feel the pout on his face, rolling her eyes.

she grabbed sukuna's free hand, placing the parasol in his hand to hold ("hmph."). she charged her head up, injuring the prince's chin to free herself from his grasp, "well, mr. president, i suppose you would like to go over some paperwork for the event."

"mommaaa, she hit me," he cried to suguru, who just hit the backside of his head.

"we'll make sure to behave, princess. come back safe," suguru waved her off. (y/n) looked at kento who just nodded, knowing that he was the only one she could fully trust. both throwing a thumbs up to each other.

after (y/n) leaving, the rest of the host club wandered around the grounds of ouran. there were multitude of yellow dresses and blue blazers directing other schools and vendors. kento was leading the group, watching yu and ieiri to ensure that they didn't get lost as they indulged in the small events that the ouran students were hosting. he trusted sukuna would keep suguru and satoru in check, mostly satoru.

kento paused in his tracks, hearing squeals behind him, 'there goes the president again.'

"he's so hot!"

"take your glasses off!"

"alright, alright, ladies. there's enough of me to go around," the dramatic movement just to take his glasses off was enough for kento to sweatdrop. the squealing increased tenfold. typically, suguru would line up the girls at their school for uniformity for their president. however, it looked he was preoccupied with his own set of girls. then, sukuna. and there is yet another group of girls.

"honestly, that took a lot longer than i thought," yu said, standing next to kento.

"that was inevitable, girls always fall for them, somehow, someway," shoko twirled her hair around her finger.

"hmm... as long as they aren't causing too much of a ruckus. we should be fine," kento huffed, shaking his head when yu offered him the snack bag that the ouran students were handing out as "freebies." what a word to have.

though, their heads snapped to a sharp gasp next to them.

a blonde with his jaw snapped wide open fainting backwards, only for a pair of orange-haired twins to catch him as he fell back. "boss!"

other than the blonde and the twins, there seemed to be a middle schooler and a taller man. another had glasses, and well, one looked ambigious, feminine-leaning perhaps.

"doesn't the blonde remind you of someone?" yu whispered to them.

"yeah, someone that we know... can't seem to think of who it is" ieiri questioned with yu, thought bubbles practically seen above their heads as they thought long and hard.

"what happened to him, kyoya-senpai?" the feminine-looking one asked.

"it may be due to the fact that his customers have been stolen," the glasses one answered. kento recognized him, kyoya ootori, as his parents frequently invited the ootori family to the quarterly nanami galas as a thanks to the partnership of two families.

"my princesses! how dare they look at another man," the blonde immediately rose from the ground in a familiar way to kento, yu, and ieiri. a dramatic point was directed to satoru, "you, white haired student! have you come to steal my customers?"

"that should be our cue to go to them," kento lightly tapped ieiri and yu's shoulders, signalling them to head towards their members.

the chattering from the female ouran students silenced. it was also as if the red sea parted, a direct showdown line between the two groups.

this is how (y/n) ended up, almost crossing down the half. luckily, she looked up in time to stand with her club, sweatdropping in between. she eyed kento with a 'i thought you had it controlled,' which was responded with a head shake and shrug.

"customers? you called these beautiful ladies customers? what a shame. would never think that you were their prince. who might you be?" satoru pushed his sunglasses back onto his face, causing "aww's" of disappointment from the crowd.

"excuse you, i'm tamaki, the prince of the finest club of this school. the ouran host club, of course," he offered his princely smile and a rose to one of the female student bystander, who squealed and seemed to almost pass out.

"i got it, they're one of the same," (y/n) perked her ears up to ieiri and haibara whispering to each other, raising an eyebrow.

"host club? must have fooled me, there's an entire child in your group," suguru laughed as he directed the attention to the small child with the bunny in his arms, only to raise an eyebrow once he saw the taller one behind him straighten up.

"i assumed these ladies wanted someone mature, refined," sukuna showed his signature smirk to the ladies to his left, some fainting and some reaching for him.

"we are refined, right? men?" tamaki questioned with certainty in his voice.

"well, we offer brotherly love and boy lolita, i'm not too sure if that exactly counts as refined and mature, senpai," the feminine-looking one said.

"additionally, we have female hosts to those who are interested," it felt like lights highlighted (y/n) and ieiri when suguru mentioned their female host services.

"well, we technically also-" the twins' mouth seemed to be tied up by tamaki with a sheepish smile.

"so, really, what is the point of this? we have a whiny prince on our hands that can't accept the fact his ladies are talking to actual elite people, well in terms of taste," sukuna scoffed.

"you're right, kuna, why waste time with this nonsense of a host club when we can entertain the ladies here on the way to our next activity. manager princess, lead the way to where we have to go," satoru winked at the ouran host club before allowing (y/n) to take the reigns as she normally does.

she was too far lost other than knowing if ouran's host club is anything like the one she is in, their pride was certainly on the line. the last thing she saw before she turned around was a defeated tamaki with the twins fanning him, where had she seen that scene before?

"wait, we'll challenge you during this exchange event with whatever there is to offer to see who's the better host club," tamaki called out to them, still kneeling on the ground

gasps were heard from their audience. the jujutsu academy host club (more so the guys, ieiri and (y/n) could care less about a hurt pride) turned and eyed each other, reaching a consensus.

"hmm.. we never back down from a challenge. when and where can we discuss the terms?"

"music room #3, 3 p.m. sharp."

"we'll see you there."

(y/n) surely didn't know what she was getting herself into during this exchange event. everyday was already interesting enough with her own club. though, let's see what happens.

till next time !

intro completed.

[oh-no-its-bird]

Someone ( @ohai-there ) asked me if I had any thoughts ab mdtb weeks "cultural differences" prompt, so, like, take just the copy pasted reply I gave them (+ some extra) :

I was up all night drawing birthday art and am this 👌 close to blacking out for x amount of hours so this risks being nonsensical fair warning

Uhhh culture shock my beloved, let's seee

Easy answer is the senju are very touchy feely, easily and willingly sleeps around (they face a lot less risk of bloodline theft due to rarity of the mokuton so there isn't as much ingrained cultural fear of being assulted/facing the baby shaped consequences of sleeping around willy nilly)

They can take multiple spouses and it's actually rare for the head of house to have only one wife (Hashirama is an exception bc Mito is a Princess(tm) and so to take another wife would risk offending her own clan culture, he is fine with this and they possibly often take others to bed with them just for funzies (potential hashimitoizu noises(?)))

Uhh anyways so that, they're super liberal with touch, etc. Etc.

Also they don't really do crazy deep romance and are super used to casual no strings attached flings, you have to make yourself VERY clear in what you're doing if you want to actually start a fr relationship bc otherwise many "courtship" behaviors are just like. Casual, culturally acceptable flirting and invitations to bang (the senju have a 101 different ways to proposition eachother in flower language alone.)

Meanwhile the Uchiha are on the total opposite side of the spectrum— they're like super conservative (In contrast to the Senju not having an ingrained fear of bloodline hunters, their very valuable and very vulnerable kekkei genkkei makes them prime victims, which has lead them having generations of trauma fueled insane abstinence lessons)

+ They're a noble clan and regularly interact with the Daimyo's court, so there's even more etiquette culture ingrained into them so they can send anyone into court if needed (While the Senju, who are NOT a noble clan, only ever send their main house, and so only they have to even worry about court etiquette)

They do not believe in divorce, they do not believe in political marriages (tho they do happen very very rarely, it's seen as very sad and tragic when it does) they... sometimes believe in multiple spouses, in specific situations (they can't regularly interact w the daimyo's court and not have to face it as a concept, after all)

So like. Super up tight, hella rules about how to show affection and proper ways to conduct yourselves, months long courting rituals before u even get to kissing, to sleep together before marriage is SINFUL

But they're ALSO super fucking romantic and absolutely insane about having soulmates and one true loves and are just super intense ab all that romance stuff where the senju are super relaxed in it

I think u see where this is going

Anyways uhhh

They make a village and there's tons of culture shock

Then Tobirama, being Tobirama (standoffish and cold, not especially interested in the usual wild Senju sex parties or whatever tf kind of events they're hosting in the gardens) is like, among the most "normal" to the Uchiha (from a cultural standpoint)

And bc of that, Madara maybe interacts w him more like "well he's kind of awful but at least he's not a sex FREAK like the rest of these Senju WHORES"

Umm Madara tries to court Tobirama but Tobirama sees it as him only trying to bang (?)

Which he possibly doesn't even want to do

Tobirama is like "Ah man, if only he were interested in actual courtship, but he has only given me the Senju flowers of "I wish to ravish you in the fields" and not the senju flowers of "I am potentially interest in maybe going on a date" (a proposition that a)he received not too infrequently, and so was not odd, and b) he politely rejected by accepting the flowers then showing Madara that he had planted it in red soil)

Meanwhile, Madara is like. "Wow this courtship is going so great he's accepting all my Uchiha flowers of pure devotion and innocent love in bloom"

Just in general, their clans having different flower meanings could be funny actually. The Uchiha regularly interact with court so I think they'd have to have, like, "normal" flower meanings (or else theres be some implications there of how theye gotten so far while using incorrect flower meanings in genuinely important events) so that means its the Senju who have odd meanings for flowers-- which also works, bc, like, mokuton

however many years ago, a previous descendant with mokuton told his clansmen the ""real"" meaning of these flowers,,, u wouldnt get it,,,

Another fun route could be, like, the Uchiha method of declaring ones intentions to court someone also happens to be the Senju's method of declaring a feud.

Madara tries to flirt with Tobirama only for Tobirama to understand this as Madara telling him to his face that the peace may be ongoing but he'll always hate his bitch ass !!!

[brittle-doughie]

Brittle’s Cookies

I’m essentially reposting the OC Cookies post since it’s pretty old nowadays and I wanted to bring it closer to today without reposts making it look funny. Salsa Cookie is finished at last.

Crowned Cupcake Cookie (Princess)

First Appearance: Forced Connections

Character Inspiration: Sweetheart (Omori)

Crowned Cupcake Cookie. A deranged princess that was planned to be married to you in an arranged setup by the matriarch of your family.

All she has on her mind is her beloved Y/N Cookie. Any and all threats to her plans of having their hand are swiftly and brutally dealt with.

Salsa Cookie (Commander)

First Appearance: A Forced Hand

Character Inspiration: Caramel Arrow Cookie/Saber (Fate)

The cookie that can always be counted on to lead the Cookie Kingdom forces into battle, Salsa Cookie leads the front with her trusted Tomato Blade.

She sees her Majesty’s word as absolute and will not tolerate any squandering on her watch. No matter how many pieces she’s in, she’ll fight for her King/Queen and for the Cookie Kingdom until she’s reduced to bits!

Dumpling Cookie (Royal Advisor)

First Appearance: Star of the Industry

Character Inspiration: Nastasia (Super Paper Mario)

If you ever need a cookie to handle all of the royal advising or secretary work overall, Dumpling Cookie is more than happy to step in for you.

This stoic and professional Cookie is skilled in handling kingdom politics and making sure you're at the top of the game in the field.

Cherry Cream Cookie (Assassin)

First Appearance: NTA

Every kingdom needs their assortment of sneaky cookies to handle any..problems that come your way. Cherry Cream Cookie is the one that you can count on to get a cookie silenced.

You’re not having her assassinate any regular cookie, you weren’t that cruel. Instead, she’s tasked with eliminating the worst, so that the cookies around them are all for the better.

Bitter Candy Cookie (Medic)

First Appearance: NTA

Cookies will inevitably get hurt around the kingdom, which is where Bitter Candy Cookie comes into the fray. While her methods do help with any aliments, her medicine is exactly like her namesake. Totally bitter.

It starts to make you wonder if it was worth getting yourself injured just to have to experience the sour cures that Bitter Candy Cookie will give you. She can have pleasant conversation with you while you’re reeling form the effects though!

Rose Lotus Cookie (Healer)

First Appearance: NTA

Rose Lotus Cookie is different from Bitter Candy Cookie. Whereas Bitter heals you from any health-related sickness, Rose Lotus works towards healing your very dough with her therapeutic massages and techniques.

When you come in, it always makes her day. It’s not often that the ruler of the kingdom comes to her for healing and she aims to make sure you leave her fully replenished and free of stiff dough!

CANNIBAL RUN: CAKE SHOP AU

Demoncake Kitsune Cookie (Shop Worker/Ingredient Retriever)

First Appearance: Bake It Till You Make It: Renovation

A remarkably tall kitsune cookie that works alongside Redcap Mushroom in the cake shop for Y/N Cookie. She never utters a word, moving along the floor as if she were floating, all the while with that smile on her face.

During the night, she’s in charge of gathering ingredients that are frequent patrons to the cake shop as well as cookies that gifted Y/N Cookie “desserts”. She knows precisely where to strike a cookie body with her tails to extract ingredients.

Redcap Mushroom Cookie (Shop Worker/Dessert Brainstormer)

First Appearance: Bake It Till You Make It: Renovation

Redcap Mushroom Cookie is a little red around the dough, but it’s a necessity to keep her mushroom’s red color. She’ll be seen here and there around the cake shop, but will mostly be situated in the back, coming up with dessert ideas that could end up being a success.

Redcap Mushroom takes grand pleasure in experimenting and tasting the “desserts” that Y/N Cookie gets sent their way. Her favorite tool is the doughsaw, cutting into portions to get to the particularly relishing parts of the dessert…

[lovebugism]

✶   — LOVEBUGISM'S WIP LIST ! —   ✶

in which i give you all a glimpse into my never-ending wips in a desperate attempt to keep up with my drafts (▰˘◡˘▰) i've tried to put these in order of my plans to release them, but knowing me, that's always subject to change hahah (updated 07/17)

📼 —   ; ONCE BITTEN, TWICY SHY (vampire!eddie munson)

summary: by the summer of 1986, eddie munson has died and come to life again. more harrowing than that: he can't seem to stop running into the pretty lifeguard from hawkins community pool. he finds out very quickly that gloom and sunshine do not mix. (fluff, smut)

🍽️ —   ; MIRACLE ALIGNER (richie jerimovich)

summary: as far as you're concerned, the only thing you and richie have in common is mikey berzatto. the extent of your quote-unquote relationship begins and ends there. others are starting to think you hate each other so much you just might be in love. (angst, hurt/comfort)

🕊️ —   ; HOLY GRAIL (emperor geta & marcus acacius)

summary: in ancient rome, where survival is determined by the whims of a mad ruler, the empire's beloved general gives you – his first and only love – to the crazed emperor to ensure your safety. (angst, smut)

📚 —   ; SINCERELY YOURS (eddie munson)

summary: five high schoolers with nothing in common are forced to spend an entire saturday in detention together. eddie munson, the school rebel, sets his sights on the pretty little brainiac who refuses to pay him any mind. he slowly teaches her that there's nothing wrong with being a little bad. (a breakfast club re-write) (fluff, hurt/comfort)

🦇 —   ; AS THE WORLD FALLS DOWN (eddie munson series)

summary: the freak with a smushed pack of cigarettes meets the princess with a broken heart in a chance of a lifetime encounter they have no idea will lead to an entire lifetime of chance. (an st4 re-write) (fluff, angst, smut)

👨‍🏫 —   ; WHEN I KISSED THE TEACHER (professor!steve harrington)

summary: you're a burnt-out student trying to survive graduate school. steve's a washed-up writer looking for inspiration for his next book. you end up helping each other in ways neither of you expected when the school year began. (fluff, angst, smut)

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

Little random, but you've answered asks about Disney Princess movies before a while ago.

What are your thoughts on Frozen and Anna and Elsa?

Thoughts on Frozen

People like it, but to me it's a thoroughly "ok" film. It's far from Disney's best, not one of the worst, but sort of middle of the road. The plot's a giant mess and was clearly subject to last minute revisions (Hans's sudden villainy comes across as so sudden that it fails to make the point it was trying to make. It wasn't necessary, as the point Elsa makes isn't invalidated even if he wasn't evil and Anna still could have dropped him at the end. And we just get this "YOU FOOL, DIDN'T YOU KNOW I WAS THE MUSTACHE TWIRLING VILLAIN ALL ALONG?!" To which I can only say, "No, Hans, I didn't know that, kind of makes that scene where you left the castle to look for Anna personally very pointless. Nobody would have questioned you, dude." It makes a lot more sense when you consider Elsa was supposed to be the antagonist/misguided in initial drafts and the then desperate need for somebody to be the bad guy.)

Tangled, by comparison, is a much more put together film and in my opinion is much better, but it didn't have a hit song sung by Idina or Anna's adorable nerdiness and Elsa's general angst.

So Frozen gets to be the beloved film for over ten years on, rejuvenating the Disney brand for another generation, and I just have to sit there and take it.

(Perhaps a hot take, I'm not tuned in enough to know, but I thought Frozen 2 was much better as a film in general, much more put together/hard hitting, though it had far less memorable music/the big numbers just weren't as good. It's also a lot more hard-hitting, with none of the comedy and very little of the narrative of empowerment.)

Anna and Elsa

I do like these two and they're very believable characters who do go through character development that feels very real.

In Anna we have an isolated, awkward, young adult who is convinced that 'love' will save her, doesn't know where she stands with what was once a beloved older sister, and when she fucks things up tries to fix it without really addressing the issues she had in the first place until the very end of the movie.

She's fun, she's relatable, if short-sighted and naive, and it's clear that she does have to learn something from her adventure, and that she really didn't understand her sister and what she was going through.

In Elsa, we have someone who has been under immense pressure her entire life while also knowing that she has this terrible secret which means she will never live up to what she has to be to rule a nation. She ends up isolated from her younger sister out of terror of hurting her, which damages their relationship, and she too has growth where when we first meet her in the film, she sees coronation as only a one-day event she has to simply get over with as quickly as possible.

She's also a very relatable character, her struggle is something that speaks to a lot of people and has been iconic for over a decade for a reason, and she's refreshing in that her problems despite being a female lead have nothing to do with men and a man never enters the picture for her.

Even her moment of "WHEEEEEEEE I'M FREEE!" to Anna arriving and "NOOOOOOOOOO! ALL MY ACTIONS HAD TERRIBLE CONSEQUENCES!" is a great one as Elsa is only then really forced to confront both herself, her loved ones, and finally accept who she is by the end of the film.

TL;DR

Basically, I like both characters and I think people really like them for a reason.

But I do think the movie's a hot mess.

[angelwhisp3rs]

༺♥༻ royals

Pairing: re4r!leon x fem!reader

Summary: A regency era tale of two enemies lovers brought by a legend of the royal bluebell flower.

Tags: fluff; smut; p in v; fingering; leon is an asshole but just a bit.

This is the third part of my valentines advent! Check it out for the next couple of days for more stories!

Notes: I ALMOST DIED BUT IM FINE, feeling fresh after sh**ting and v**iting for two days!!! ALSO THIS WAS BASED ON A C.AI BOT AND I LOVE HIM

Those balls were all too pretentious, way too classy, and filled with people who pretended to like one another but, in reality, they were just hateful. It didn’t help that the event was being held in her enemy's territory: the Kennedy family.

The family was very prestigious and quite well known all around the realm, but they had a long-lasting feud with Ihelia, her family's kingdom - something about riches and lands centuries ago, but no one is quite sure. For now, they still didn’t see eye to eye for another reason: they were just way too snobbish.

God, especially the oldest, Leon. In a rare occurrence, the man was blonde with blue eyes - while some had one characteristic, this little asshole had both. To make matters worse, he was built like a freaking hero, his sparring abilities being renowned in all the kingdom. So yeah, the man was way too handsome and way too competent. To say he was egotistical was an understatement.

Her parents always told her she had to fulfill her duties as a princess to be wed, attending parties and mingling with the royals. Oh gods, how much did she hate it.

She was almost beginning to give up on keeping appearances as a nice old lady, the former queen of the Luterra kingdom - the one ruled by the Kennedys now. She was always known for her kindness, also being the one responsible for the truce period of Luterra and Ihelia. Doing a proper courtesy, she smiled at the queen mother. 

“Your majesty. It's a pleasure to attend such a beautiful event” Oh, how fake she was

“Oh honey, no need to keep up appearances. I always thought my son was way too obnoxious with his parties” she laughed, offering a welcoming pat on her shoulders.

The princess smiled relieved, looking at the former queen with the utmost respect. Gosh, what a wise woman. “I thought the lions were quite artistic. '' The princess jokes, as the queen mother laughs in agreement.

“So, you entered the age of finding suitors. Someone charmed you yet?”

“Not yet, your majesty. My father is busy telling me I should focus on the strategic side of relationships, while my mother just wants me to focus on a wealthy man”

“Oh dear, what about love?”

“Don’t think it is in the cards for me” the princess smiled apologetically.

“Of course it is. It's for everyone! Have you ever heard of the tale of the royal bluebell flower?”

The princess shook her head, curious about the queen's words.

“It’s a known tale in Luterra. Once in a lifetime, if destiny smiles upon you, you will be able to find a royal bluebell flower in the castle. Once you find it, the flower will guide you to your one true love if you still haven’t found it.”

“That sounds magical, your highness. Maybe I should roam around the gardens then” she joked.

For some reason, the queen gave the girl a knowing smile. The woman was wise beyond her years after all. “Don’t worry. Luterra lands are quite magical. They will lead you anywhere you are”

'•.¸♡ ♡¸.•'︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵'•.¸♡ ♡¸.•'

Roaming the party his dad threw, Leon almost seethed as he watched his beloved grandmother talk to one of the lowlifes in Ihelia. He never understood her high morals of talking to the people who tried to steal their money and land. They weren’t to be trusted - they tried to steal once, which could guarantee they wouldn’t do it again.

He approached them, gearing himself with a knowing smirk, looking dashing in his red and gold ornamental suit.  

“Didn’t know our parties could be accessed by anyone. I think I’ll talk to dad to reinforce security next time”

The princess rolled her eyes, while the queen just snickered. She quickly excused herself, giving Leon a warning look to “behave”. As the young royals were alone, his nice facade dropped - he didn’t want to appear like a complete jackass in front of his beloved grandma, after all. 

“Genuely, why are you even here?”

“I was invited, idiot. If I could, I wouldn't have come here even if I was threatened”

“I forgot how my dad invited even the most needed ones. Such a charitable man”

“If he was charitable he wouldn’t have brought to Earth a menace like yourself”

Before he could answer, the orchestra began playing a more romantic and slow song. Finding it as another opportunity to tease her, he asked for her hand, knowing that she would look distasteful if she ever wanted to refuse his hand.

“My lady. Do you accept this dance?”

If possible, that was the pivotal moment that she almost killed the bachelor. Forcing a smile to not drop her etiquette, she nodded and held his hand, letting him guide her to the dance floor. 

By destiny's irony, they fit like perfect puzzles, his big and calloused hand wrapping against her delicate gloved one. Their bodies moved in synchrony, and the dance wasn’t as awkward as it was between other bachelors.

“I’m surprised you know how to dance at all, it looks like even in poverty lands they appreciate culture”

“Your grandma is so sweet, how are you even related to her?”

“Grandma is too kind, she always respects those in need. She doesn’t see the scumm your family is” he said in a cruel smirk.

She maintained the appearance, giving him a forced smile. “It amazes how you call yourself smart and yet still hold a grudge - that isn't yours - after centuries.”

“Ha, is that the best you could say to me?”

“Honestly, no. The way you act is so beneath me that I don't think it is worth it to spend so much energy on you”.

As I'd on cue, the orchestra stopped the song, and she did another courtesy and left the dance floor.

However, she failed to watch Leon pale, but for reasons she would be none the wiser for a long time.

'•.¸♡ ♡¸.•'︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵'•.¸♡ ♡¸.•'

“Honey, the ball in Luterra must've been quite exciting”

“Ah, not much. Why do you say that?” The princess asks her father curiously.

“Because the oldest of the Kennedys just asked for your hand in marriage”

“HE WHAT?”

It was quite comical how her voice resonated in the castle, looking confused. 

“I know you might not like it, but it is a perfect marriage for you. It would solve the rift between the kingdoms and it would secure both households in influence”

The princess looked angrily at her dad, as he told the most absurd thing she ever heard, with even worse reasons.

“Do any of my feelings matter at all?”

“They do, but we have to be strategic. I'm sorry, honey, but I already accepted it”.

She lost her grounding, looking desolated at her father's words. It didn't matter what she felt or what she said, at the end of the day, she was a pawn to serve her father's wishes.

'•.¸♡ ♡¸.•'︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵'•.¸♡ ♡¸.•'

The change into his castle was even more terrifying. But what she could never count was the complete change in Leon's behavior. Although he still wasn't overly friendly, he was much kinder - he was the one who started that lunacy after all.

They still slept in separate rooms until the wedding happened, but he made an effort to spend at least a part of the day with her. Whenever she asked him for his reasons for wanting to marry her, he always gave her the same answer.

“Please ask me after our wedding”

After some weeks of curiosity, the ceremony happened, and it was perfect. To everyone watching, it was a wedding to be remembered for years. Hell, even she felt like a true princess.

She warmed up to Luterra, especially the castle and its staff. Her assigned maid was absolutely lovely, and she honestly considered the woman a friend. 

Still, she vehemently ignored her family in the ceremony. If they traded her like a pawn, they can play that game by themselves, she doesn't want to be a part of it.

By the end of the night, Leon and she were finally sharing a room. She looked nervous, sitting up in bed with him. He was the first one to break the ice.

“You looked beautiful today. You always do, but you shined even more today”

“Thank you. And thank you for being at my side the entire day. I'm glad I didn't feel alone”

“I would never. I will always choose you”

Some moments passed, and she bit the bullet.

“Leon… why me?” 

He was a coveted bachelor, every woman would want him. Why his enemy?

He smiled, and looked down at the sheets, as if he was embarrassed.

“Your hair ornament at the day of the ball”

“What? Just because?” I asked giggling.

“No. It was a royal bluebell. That's when I knew”

She looked at him surprised. Just the tale his grandmother told her at the party. That's why she looked so cunning, she must've realized the flower she had on her hair.

“But Leon, anyone could've worn something with the flower-”

“No. I didn't want to attend the event, but I heard a staff member talking about destiny's surprises. I was already late to the event, and you were the first woman I saw.”

“Jeez, you take these things seriously. You honestly think I'm your soulmate”

“Wholeheartedly. And if you don't, I'll spend the rest of my life proving it to you”

She was taken aback by his words. So moved, she pressed a kiss to his lips, surprising both at the spontaneity. Leon didn't waste any time and got over her - it was their honeymoon, after all.

In a mess of limbs and eagerness, both were naked as they explored each other's bodies, breathless and excited. Leon maintained eye contact and lifted her thighs to his waist, offering his fingers to her and letting her mouth soak them. Then, they moved down to her clit, circling and rubbing it slowly, drinking in the soft gasps of pleasure.

“So soft, baby… gonna make this pretty pussy love me just as much as you do”

As she was wet enough, one finger gently entered her needy hole, finding her g spot and rubbing it slowly, her entrance clenching around him.

His movements were slow but deliberate, and soon his pretty princess fell apart on his fingers. No time to waste, his other hand lifted her other thigh to his hips, giving easy access to her.

His hand pinched and circled her nipples, kissing her deeply as his tip began to slide in, causing both to moan in unity.

“Fuck, Leon… too much”

“You can take it, you are my good girl”

She clenched at the praise, making him smirk. He kept praising her, till she was ready to take cock. 

“My baby, gonna take care of you forever”

“Doing so good, just taking me so deep”

“Pussy made to be fucked by me

As he felt her more comfortable and turned on, he moved his hips at a consistent pace, the angled head of his cock hitting her spot just nicely. 

She scratched his arms and back, guaranteeing he henot be able to be shirtless in front of people for quite a while, but he didn't mind. He would take every mark she gave in, that's how much he loved her.

He moaned as his cock was swallowed by her gummy walls, her wetness granting a white creamy circle at the base of his manhood.

He positioned himself again, throwing her legs over his arms and bending her in half, letting him hit it deeper, making his wife tear up - in pleasure, of course.

“God, if you keep clenching I won't be able to hold back, baby”

“Please, please, just want you to cum. Please fill me up, husband”

Jesus, how could he resist? He was only a man after all. As his hips pistoned in her, he felt her contracting her walls and cumming all around him, triggering his orgasm.

She whined as she felt filled up, her body shaky as her orgasm just threw her on cloud 9. She smiled as he kissed her face as he came down too, appreciating and worshiping the body of his soulmate.

“Isn't that enough proof that you are my destiny?”

“Hmm, don't know that… maybe you should try again” She said smirking.

Leon didn't oppose her. After all, he had all eternity to prove his love.

[yurimother]

Yuri Anime Review - Whisper Me a Love Song Series Premiere

A delightful school romance that captures unfettered joy and attraction

2023 was nothing short of an incredible year for Yuri anime, packed with an astonishing lineup of new offerings, including Yuri Is My Job!, Stardust Telepath, The Vexations of a Shut-In Vampire Princess, I’m in Love with a Villainess, my personal favorite, the runaway success that was The Magical Revolution Of the Reincarnated Princess and the Genius Young Lady and of course the continuation and conclusion of the surprise Yuri sci-fi Mobile Suit Gundam: The Witch from Mercury. Whisper Me a Love Song has the unenviable task of following up and providing a cap on this unprecedented boom of Yuri anime. The adaptation of Eku Takeshima’s high school romance manga was initially announced alongside many of the aforementioned works. However, it ended up being delayed from its initial January debut for various reasons, not the least of which was the switch in directors from Xin Ya Cai to Akira Mano.

Further compounding the pressure on this series is the comparisons it will draw to Bloom Into You, one of the most beloved and well-received Yuri series of all time. Now, these comparisons are mostly unfair, as Bloom Into You had the mighty weight of Kadokawa’s marketing behind it, although, to be fair, Whisper Me a Love Song’s campaign has been no slouch. Moreover, the two series are very different, save for their shared high school setting and Yuri romance. Bloom Into You was a slow-burn romance that leaned into shounen drama, while Whisper Me a Love Song takes a noticeably lighter tone and incorporates more slice of life elements. It does not help that the Whisper Me a Love Song manga debuts the same year that Bloom Into You concluded its serialized run and would go on to replace the latter as the top Yuri series in many audiences’ eyes, and for myself, would go onto fill the same niche of an extended high school romance. All this is to say that the expectations around Whisper Me a Love Song are unreasonably mammoth. However, the anime’s debut episode assured us that we are in for a warm and harmonious display of young love.

The Welcome Concert

The show begins as Himari Kino (Hana Shimano) wakes up for her first day of high school. At a welcome ceremony for new students, she witnesses the light music club band, SSGIRLS, perform their song "Humming Love,” and the temporary lead vocalist, Yori Asanagi (Asami Seto), instantly enchants her. This scene catalyzes the series’ ongoing story and helps highlight some of the most critical aspects and features of this adaptation: the music and the animation. 

Whisper Me a Love Song does not set the world on fire visually, boasting animation that, at its best moments, can be described as “pretty good.” Yet, it does more than a serviceable job, smartly utilizing its resources and clever framing that keeps the viewer’s attention and makes the story easy to follow while saving on animation. There are some flaws, such as stiffer animation during dialogue-heavy scenes and the noticeable use of 3D CGI elements for background characters and objects, like flower petals. However, these do not distract from the narrative nor detract from one’s enjoyment. However there are positives as well to point out here.

For one, the series does a fantastic job with its lighting, applying generous highlights to characters’ faces and hair, enhancing their features, and preventing them from coming across visually as flat or simplistic. The frequent use of a light, soft background that bathes the subjects in a warm glow matches this choice, and they work together in tandem to help convey the anime’s light and happy tone. The anime occasionally employs this lighting to accentuate story beats, such as when Yori peaks through the curtain at the crowd, casting most of her body in shadow as she worries about performing in front of such a large crowd.

This welcome ceremony has noticeably different animation than the rest of the episode. Here, the members of SSGIRLS are injected with an electric sense of movement, playing their instruments with enthusiasm and energy that honestly felt jarring when compared to the more limited shorts of Himari reacting to the performance. Given its importance in the story and the fact that the anime reuses this scene for the opening theme, it is clear why the animation was given more attention and resources. However, and I am likely in the minority here, I actually dislike it for this reason. The heavily referenced footage stands out a bit too much, especially given that it is intercut with more straightforward static shots of Himari, creating a jarring effect that pulls focus away from the characters and their feelings.

The Musical Advantage

Where the series did not disappoint me is musically. In recent years, Yuri works have drawn more and more from musical-themed settings, including Hello, Melancholic!, The Moon on a Rainy Night, and Amongst Us, not to mention the myriad of “Yuri-ish” musical series. However, the apparent disconnect is that manga and webtoons are visual mediums devoid of sound and score. While some titles, such as  After Hours and The Guy She Was Interested in Wasn’t a Guy at All, mitigate this flaw by releasing companion playlists or soundtracks, it is not the same as incorporating the music into the product itself.

Here, Whisper Me a Love Song’s jump to animation truly adds to the experience, elevating it above its source material. Himari’s instantaneous infatuation is so much more believable when we, the viewers, can experience the music alongside her; her “loving” obsession with Yori made that much more real because we also hear the upperclassman’s performance, provided by Kana Sasakura’s wonderful singing voice. Studios Cloud Hearts and Yokohama Animation Laboratory are, of course, aware of music’s central role in the story and have done it justice, giving the fictitious SSGirls multiple chances to shine, not just in the episode itself but also in performing the opening theme, “Follow Your Arrows.”

Returning to the episode, after the welcome ceremony, Himari runs into Yori and begins to fangirl over her, confessing that she “fell in love at first sight.” Yori is stunned by this sudden confession and taken with Himari’s cuteness and openness. After confiding in her bandmates, she realizes that she has fallen in love, much to the other’s delight.

Supporting Characters Steal the Show

These conversations are excellent, as they give us the chance to get to see more of the series’ other characters. Like the original manga, Whisper Me a Love Song has a terrific supporting cast that adds to the humor and drama. Each of the other characters has a striking, unique design and personality that helps them stand out, like the drummer Mari, who is slightly more stoic and comes from a wealthy family. She is contrasted well by the playing keyboardist, Kaori, who often flirts and teases Mari. Siblings Miki and Aki act as the best friends of the lead characters, usually providing them guidance and encouragement. Each girl excels on screen thanks to some stand-out writing and performance. While each is different from the others,, they all have one unifying characteristic: their encouragement and excitement for Yori and Himari, which is infection, making us want to root for them, too. The lone exception is Aki, who herself harbors feelings for Yori, which will come into play in future episodes.

I like these supporting characters even more than I did in the manga, thanks in no small part to Minami Yoshida's fantastic work adapting Eku Takeshima’s characters to the screen. They capture each character perfectly; Himari is cute, ditzy, and full of adoring exuberance. Yori’s appearance portrays her as cool and elegant, but her movements and posture help convey her more anxious and apprehensive nature. And, of course, each of their friends is striking and memorable, and their depiction matches their personality. For example, Mari is prim and proper, weaning her uniform and hair unadulterated from modification and maintaining a hardened, no-nonsense expression. However, Kaori has a more rounded, goofier face, complete with a dopey smile and a bright yellow hoodie, betraying her more playful personality.

Rooftop Romances

The episode's high points come in its second half, two scenes on the rooftop with Himari and Yori alone. The first begins with Yori singing as she thinks about Himari and her confusing feelings for her, while unbeknownst to Yori, Himari walks upstairs thinking about Yori’s singing. It is an excellent reflection of the central conflict these two will face in their upcoming “romance,” the fact that their feelings of love for each other are different, with Yori’s being a more mature romantic attraction and Himari’s a child-like obsession for the older girl’s singing.

Put plainly, it is beautiful, showcasing the best singing we hear from Yori, a light, melodic hum, and some of the best emotional work of the episode as she makes sense of her feelings. Unfortunately, this scene also showcases Whisper Me a Love Song’s weakest aspect, its pacing.

The rhythm of the manga was already a frustrating issue, as it both fussed about with little for extended stretches and introduced and resolved conflicts with little time for rumination or exploration. This issue is only exacerbated by the anime’s truncated story. The first episode alone covers two and a half chapters of the manga and sees Yori change her emotional state about a half dozen times, first being anxious about singing, then confused by her feelings for Himari, then realizing she might be in love, confessing that love, feeling the embarrassment of her misunderstanding, and at last confirming that she is in love with Himari and vowing to make the other girl recognize and reciprocate her feelings. It is less of an emotional rollercoaster and more of a rapid, rambling barrage of issues and feelings that have no time to breathe or create any real impact in the story. I wished they had spent a few episodes playing out this arc, letting Yori slowly come to terms with these new feelings of love for Himari and working to overcome her trepidation surrounding them.

After plotting with her friends how to make Himari fall for her, the episode ends as Yori walks up to the roof to find Himari already waiting for her, a nice flip on the previous rooftop scene. There, Himari requests Yori sing for her, which she does. It is an exceptional sequence. The characters' feelings and differing attractions for each other come across so clearly. Himari is so visibly excited to hear Yori sing, and the older girl has such a wonderful mix of cool and collected affection and awkwardness that you cannot help but smile while watching it. Both girls have such a warm, gentle, and loving disposition, perfectly matched by the soft orange sky and quiet, empty rooftop. As Yori sings, the perspective shifts and employs some scenic Yuri, focusing on the sky and indirect views of each character until finally settling back on Himari’s blushing, glowing face from Yori’s perspective, a perfect encapsulation of the adoring girl that she has fallen in love with.

Conclusion

I am so happy with Whisper Me a Love Song. The anime did everything it needed to, from maintaining the manga’s fun, light tone of young love to adding excellent music that helps you understand how these characters became drawn to one another. It has flaws, with middling animation quality and an unfortunate dedication to the poor pacing and speed of the manga. Nevertheless, these do not distract from an overall adorable and fun experience. Most importantly, the anime nails the excitement, affectionate, and intense joyfulness of its two characters and their love for each other. I cannot wait to enjoy every second of their relationship and confidently declare that this Yuri series is an easy recommendation, untainted by the usual list of qualifications or warnings I am usually required to make. Whisper Me a Love Song is just a sweet, simple, and delightful school romance that you should absolutely watch. 

Ratings: Story – 8 Characters – 10 Art – 6 LGBTQ – 9 Sexual Content – 0 Music – 7 Final – 8

You can stream Whisper Me a Love Song with English subtitles on HIDIVE.

This review is made possible by Avery Riehl and the rest of the YuriMother Patrons. Support the Patreon today for early access, exclusive content, and to help fund LGBTQ+ content.

[teacupballerina]

PPG headcanons/plotbunnies townie and villain edition (non-crossover)

Mr. Green and Ms. Keane live in the same apartment complex. They meet after Keane's breakup in "Keen on Keane" when Green notices that Keane seems upset at the mail center. They start talking and--what a coincidence they both love kids!! A few episodes later Ms. Keane catches a nasty illness from amoeba-tainted oranges after "Divide and Conquer" and the only person she trusts to watch over her beloved class in "Substitute Creature" is Mr. Green. A few years later they get married and have halflings who help the new generation in Townsville stomach monster integration.

Robin's parents divorce not long after Super Friends and she blames herself because they are verbally abusive. They have split custody so Robin is only the Utoniums' neighbor every other week. She has an emo phase in middle school and cuts her hair short. Inspiration: the couple her parents were based on divorced IRL and she knows she's "an accident".

Following from previous, in high school Bubbles and Robin become girlfriends, Bubbles is the one who confesses first.

Buttercup taught Ace how to play bass during some never-made episode where the girls teach them to play instruments as part of a rehabilitation effort after Aspirations. ("If you want to meet girls, why don't you guys start a band?") The gang goes on to form a ska band with Snake on guitar, Ace on bass, Billy on drums, Arturo on trumpet (which he already knew how to play somehow) and Grubber on mic. They eventually split when Ace gets the call from Gorillaz.

Sedusa is Ms. Keane's elder sister. This is the reason Ms. Keane is more sympathetic to monsters and mutants. She doesn't have a lot of time between grading homework to keep up with supervillain activity, so she doesn't know half of what Sedusa has done. At some point they meet again and catch up, Sedusa goes low profile after "Aspirations" and leans more into civilian life. The girls don't find out the relation until after leaving Pokey Oaks Kindergarten, at Ms. Keane's wedding to Mr. Green.

Bubbles stays in touch with Wuzzy after "Roughin' It Up" and learns more about the forest and the Lumpkins clan from him. She even dates Wuzzy for a while and has a farmgirl phase, buying vegan leather cowboy boots that she wears into adulthood. This all helps her connect with and befriend Fuzzy himself, who learns to be more accepting through her. LOOK HOW CUTE THO:

Mojo Jojo ages very slowly due to his Chemical X mutation. His specific fixation on Blossom culminates in his focus shifting to either converting or dating her rather than destroying her (something he comes to understand as impossible). Even he doesn't know what he wants and has a lot of anguish over how he feels about her. Blossom's willing to be friends if he stops busting the city up, but she's never telling him that.

The Rowdyruff boys grow into manchildren and start "The Ruffcast", a manosphere podcast/youtube where they do nothing but play videogames, pump iron and complain about the Powerpuff Girls being too smart, too fat, and not feminine enough. Mitch Mitchelson gets roped in as the camera guy and occasional participant, which makes Buttercup dump him.

Princess Morbucks goes from wanting to be a Powerpuff Girl to just wanting to be a team leader. She recruits/buys her own team of girls to suit up and boss around, and this becomes a high-turnover job position for desperate people. Every other time the girls meet Princess, her lackeys are different. Daddy eventually disowns her not for being a villain but for being a tabloid magnet in college, forcing her to start over with nothing. One last ditch effort leads her to public records, and searching for any extended family to appeal to, she discovers her birth mother is Sara Bellum [A lesbian who used to be Morbucks' secretary--she loves Mayor because he's a harmless decent man who helped her escape that situation by hiring her]. Bellum takes her in, reluctantly, but she is totally immune to manipulation and sets her straight.

Ms. Bellum eventually runs for Mayor of Townsville and wins. Mayor Mayor retires to Pokey Oaks senior center. The girls visit him often and occasionally consult him for info about Townsville's history if needed--it's much easier for him to remember things from a long time ago, he's not so good with the day-to-day stuff. Bubbles volunteers there with Bullet, who opens Mayor's pickle jars when the nurses can't.

Harry Pitt running gag: Getting referenced as being in juvie and then prison, but it's never stated what he did. We know what he's in for, but the other characters never say.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Angela Lansbury (The Harvey Girls, The Court Jester, The Manchurian Candidate)—The babe, the myth, the legend. In her own words her early hollywood roles were "a series of venal bitches" and they were all glorious. Half of them wanted to kill you and you probably would have thanked them. She even goes toe to toe with Judy Garland in The Harvey Girls! That said, she was chronically underused and misused during this era - she was just 36 when she was cast as Elvis Presley's mother in Blue Hawaii and a few years later commented that she'd played so many 'old hags' that most people thought she was in her 60s. She thought she was "all talent, no looks" but she was the full package! Post-1970 I hope we all know what an incredibly talented and compassionate badass she was, but I feel like not enough people know her early roles as a hot (often villainous) young thing.

Angie Dickinson (Rio Bravo, Point Blank, Ocean's Eleven)—Though it could be argued that overall her career leans more to TV, during this time period she was splitting movie title credits with the very top names in the business.

This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Propaganda for Angie Dickinson:

Propaganda for Angela Lansbury:

"Angela Lansbury might not be where your mind goes first when you think of hot leading women, because she had a later career revival. But she began acting in the early 1940s after leaving London due to the Blitz. In the first couple decades of her film career she has an openness about her. She said she never really fit in with the Hollywood crowd and to me she gives off a friendly, untarnished vibe."

"Most of us know Angela Lansbury as old lady sleuth Jessica Fletcher, but it's important to know that she was smoking hot in her younger days as well as a damned fine actress. Although she didn't get lead roles until her early 40s, at 17 she was a supporting actress in films such as Gaslight (1944), National Velvet (1944), and The Picture of Dorian Grey, for which she won the Golden Globe for best supporting actress and was nominated for the Oscar. Even in her memorable performance as the manipulative mother in The Manchurian Candidate, she is listed as a supporting actress as she does not play the love interest. She was successful both on stage and screen, and won the Tony for her lead role in the musical Mame on Broadway in 1966. TL;DR While Angela Lansbury mostly played supporting roles in films before 1970, she had what it takes to be a leading actress, which we know from her success on stage and tv from the mid 60s onward"

"She looked like a princess but bit like a viper"

"Is there anything this woman couldn't do? Act in comedy and drama, sing, dance, be a wonderful human being - quite simply a true and wonderful lady."

"god she had such an incredible career all throughout her life really but as a young lady she was just as incredible as she was in her later years. enchanting voice, amazing personality, and absolutely GORGEOUS. she lamented not having the looks to play leads in romance but that idea is so batshit because look at her??? she's one of the most terrific women of all time. also she's my grandmother's favorite actress and i truly get it"

"she is the fairytale princess of my dreams in court jester"

[silviakundera]

Did a speedrun through modern cdrama Everyone Loves Me because I'm a fan of both leads. A fairly well constructed romcom for a specific trope, AND also one of the most valid examples of the critique that cdrama storylines are pointlessly over-extended. This would have been a great modern drama at 12 episodes. Unfortunately, it's at least 10 episodes too long. The literal gaming (characters interacting while playing videogames) is very light - it's an initiating plot device piece but doesn't consume much actual screen time. The real genre is IT workplace romance with Hidden Identity trope.

Do you like:

* Capable & ambitious female lead x male lead with a competency kink whose turn-offs are white lotus & green tea girls and turn-ons are brash ladies who can cuss you out; dressing up to impress is not required

* Romantic dynamic of equal partners (2 strong personalities, not active/passive)

* "We don't know yet who is going to be the breadwinner. My goal is to be a CEO."

* Low heat (just a few kisses),

* modern workplace dramas (so much working)

[heavy spoilers below]

The actual set up & outline are:

* Online friend group who casually game together, in the last days of university. One of the guys starts catching feelings for the girl, our FL (let's call him Gamer Friend). FL isn't romantically considering Gamer Friend at all, because she has a crush on a guy from her uni.

* This crush is Gamer Friend in rl! 😮

* ML isn't open to being crushed on by anyone at rl uni, because he is already hung up on FL (as his online friend) 🙈

* FL asks for advice from her gaming buds on how to pursue her rl crush. Gamer Friend doesn't want her to succeed, because he wants to win her heart, so he keeps giving terrible advice to chase him by acting out the soft-spoken innocent maiden archetype (the opposite of FL's real boisterous & brash personality)

* This creates a comedy of errors where ML in rl is being pursued by the woman he's in love with, but he's shooting her down left & right. This culminates in her confessing and he publically rejects her in a harsh manner. When she comes crying (and vengeful) to the group, the guys all realize the identity confusion. Appropriately horrified, bros have no idea what to do. (This whole scene is gold tbh.)

* This plotline covers 7 episodes, but should have been dealt with in 4.

* Next 5 episodes (should have been 2!): Gamer Friend, toiling under karma, tries to be virtually supportive of his beloved while in person desperately making gestures to show remorse & have her less willing to obliterate his RL person. (this is all complicated by them both hired into the same company post-grad; there's a whole gaming dev & art design subplot - like in Lighter & Princess, the writers did the research so the setting is reality-based). This arc ends with identity reveal: she finally knows irl crush = Gamer Friend

* Next 6-7 episodes lead her from being (rightfully) furious and humiliated to them finally becoming friendly & supportive of each other. He waits to ask for more until he feels truly forgiven for the shakespearean hijinks that kept them apart. Includes work drama and fake-dating For Reasons. This arc, again, could have been 3-4 episodes.

* Final 5 episode arc is dating era and culmination of the gaming dev plotline. Heavy emphasis on work drama. Only 2 out of the last 5 episodes had significant romance material for the main couple, which was the major flaw in the drama. Avoided the separation cliche but also no marriage scenes at the end - we just see that they're still close, supportive partners a year later. Should have been 3 episodes ;)

The structure is right for a simple rom com set up of: one party pursues, gets rejected, then the other party pursues & corrects their mistake. The misunderstandings are logical enough; FL is assertive and we see evidence of her talent (not just told); ML likes her for herself & doesn't want a childish, obedient woman like the idol dramas represent; they are shown to make a good team & respect each other; the wronged party isn't a push over and their forgiveness has to be earned. It's clear why they like each other and that they work as a couple. (Though the emphasis is on compatibility & domesticity rather than sexual heat.)

The showrunner just needed to compress each arc and spend a lot less time on corporate minutiae. The way I engage with this type of drama is to binge, skip all 2nd couple scenes, and liberal use of fast forward ⏩⏩.